It All Started With Flowers
by BluesGirl
Summary: Javert's structured life of the law thrusts him into loneliness. When he meets a girl in Toulon, his life starts to change. Just a simple fic, nothing too serious. No beta reader, so be gentle! Hope you enjoy! Javert x OC
1. Chapter 1

I: Flowers

The salt from the crashing ocean clung to Javert's skin and made it feel tight against his cheekbones. He looked down at the chanting prisoners and his lip instinctively curled, his distaste for the scum overpowering him. The long, smooth handle of the wooden baton was clutched tightly in his gloved hand.

The day was warm, yet he was still chilled from the biting sea spray. Javert clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the shipyard and thought about what it would feel like to set sail on one of the wooden ships, their decks lurching from the churning sea. He decided that life was safer on dry land. He removed a pocket watch and looked at the marble face. Spindly black hands pointed to one o'clock. His shift had ended

Javert descended down stone steps and wound his way through the streets, overstepping puddles of filth and ignoring the grime covered faces of shop vendors and workers. He saw a young woman beating out the dust from a rug and noticed her thin wrists and shapely hands, how her arms moved and flexed with the force of the strikes on the cloth. Scolding himself, he averted his hard gaze to the ground.

"Flower _monsieur?" _asked a little voice from behind his shoulder. Javert turned and looked down at the face of a young woman, her hand extended towards him with wilting daffodils drooping between her fingers. She had her arm looped through the handle of a little wicker basket, tulips, daisies, and daffodils resting inside. "Flowers?"

He regarded her. Her face was clean, free of grime save for a couple streaks on her left cheek, and her eyes were a dusky blue, almost like the roiling sea. He looked at her fingers, and noticed that they too were covered with dirt. Soil clung to the roots of the flowers. He realized that she was clean and presentable in a light yellow dress, save for the streaks of mud on the front of her skirt.

"They're free, _monsieur!" _she exclaimed, smiling. Her teeth were even. She swung her fist forward, trying to entice the guard into taking her flowers.

Suddenly, there was a commotion down at the end of the street. "Who did it! Where is that girl!? Aimée!" The voice was booming and strong.

Startled, the girl, who Javert assumed was Aimée, let the flowers drop from her fist and whirled around, her blonde curls shining in the gray sunlight. Javert also stiffened as he heard the booming voice and looked up, the tassel from his guard hat brushing the side of his face. From the crowd emerged a man, well-built and strong, his blonde hair tied back with a ribbon, now messy from his obvious anger. Dark eyes shone in irritation and he grabbed the girls arm, causing her to yelp.

"You destroyed the garden, you little brat!" he shouted. The girl whimpered.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she said, her eyes clenched shut.

"Everything's destroyed, there's dirt everywhere! Look at your dress!" the man's voice was rising ever louder; shopkeepers averted their eyes and went inside. Yellowed eyes bulged and his sallow cheeks turned crimson. "You are far too old to be acting like this! You'll be sorry!" There was a sharp smack from his hand striking Aimée's cheek and she stumbled to the ground, muddying her ruined dress even further.

Javert suddenly stepped between the man's raised arm and the girl sobbing on the ground. The guard felt the wood of his baton clenched tight in his fist and he glared at the young woman's father, his mouth turned harshly downwards into a hard frown.

"What is going on here?" Javert demanded, his voice louder and stronger than the enraged man's own. The young woman, Aimée, got up and scurried behind Javert, just able to look over his shoulder and her cheek already starting to redden from her father's strike.

"That brat, my daughter, ripped up the flowerbed again. I told her three times not to do it, but does she listen? NO!"

Javert glanced down behind him and saw the girl peeking out from behind him. He sternly grabbed her arm and brought her out from her hiding spot. Her dark blue eyes were brimming with tears and she glanced at Javert and then to the ground.

"What were you doing with the flowers, girl?" Javert asked, his voice unyielding and even.

"Giving them away, sir," Aimée said, suddenly finding her shoes interesting. "I like to give the flowers away to the people."

"They're not yours to be giving away! You ripped them from my garden!" her father bellowed, stepping to strike her again. Javert grabbed the man's wrist as he moved between them, his grip strong. Aimée yelped and retreated back behind him. Her father was bewildered.

"I do not appreciate the physical abuse of women in my presence, _monsieur…_what is your name?"

"Gérard Lamenté" Gérard sputtered, Javert's harsh grip starting to make him uncomfortable. For the first time, he noticed the polished wood baton that was clenched in the guard's free hand.

"If your daughter tore up your garden, reprimand her and force her to do work around the house. Do not beat her in front of the world. They do not need to witness her punishment." Javert's voice was cold.

Gérard, who was by no means a small man, seemed to shrink back from Javert's voice. Javert released his arm and stepped away from the girl's father, but he allowed Aimée to shelter herself behind him.

"Fine then," he said, drawing himself up as much as he could, "You deal with her." And with that, Aimée's father stalked off.

Javert watched him go before he slipped his baton back in his belt and turned to continue walking down the road, leaving a stunned looking Aimée standing in the middle of the cobblestones. She scrambled to pick up the wilted flowers on the road and hurried after the straight-backed guard.

"_Monsieur, _thank you," she said, a little timidly as she fell into step next to him. He didn't glance at her.

"It's part of my duty to protect, _mademoiselle_," Javert muttered, "Even if I'm just a guard."

Aimée was quiet as she observed him. She liked the way he looked, she decided. Hair clung to his chin and his eyes were downturned slightly, like he was perpetually regarding something or deep in thought.

"Might I inquire as to why you are following me?" he asked, turning a corner and finally casting her a glance as he made his way to a café.

She looked down, searching for an excuse. Truth be told, she was sticking close to him out of fear of her father. She worried that the second she left the guard's side, her other cheek would sting with her father's strike. "You never took your flowers," she said instead.

"Do I look like a man in need of flowers, child?" he said, almost scoffing.

"Yes."

Her answer surprised Javert and he turned to look at her, his eyes stern, but easing into a curious regard.

"How old are you?" he finally asked.

"Sixteen."

_Much too old to be muddied in the street trying to give away flowers. She should be inside, learning to sew and create small talk, _Javert thought. "And what is your name?"

"Aimée Lamenté"

So he had guessed correctly.

The name fit her, he decided; fit her dusty blonde hair and oceanic eyes. Javert's own stormy gaze glanced at the wilted flowers in the basket. He almost laughed at the dirt still determinably clinging to their roots. But he was Javert, and laughing wasn't an easy feat.

"I think, _mademoiselle_ Lamenté, that you should return home. Clean yourself up and start to mend your father's garden."

Her eyes flickered to the ground. "Papa's so mad at me he won't want to see me home for a few hours."

"Is his temper always this short?" Javert grunted, glancing around to the dirty patrons of the streets and shops. His nose wrinkled instinctively. If the girl noticed, which she undoubtedly did, she didn't acknowledge it.

Aimée nodded, "Usually he's angrier than that."

For a moment, Javert felt a little sliver of distaste swell in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it back down quickly. Why should he be concerned with this child?  
"I'm sure he'd be happier if you didn't misbehave and ruin your clothes." His statement meant to be a joke, but he said it too harshly and the girl looked down from subtle hurt.

"Well, _monsieur_, perhaps I should return home," she said, giving him a small curtsey. She turned, about to disappear into the crowds.

Knowing his words had hurt her, Javert called out before Aimée retreated out of earshot.

"_Mademoiselle_, wait. I will take a flower," he said before he could stop himself.

Aimée turned and suddenly smiled at him, her teeth bright and cheeks rosy. Hurrying back to him, she thrust out a yellow daffodil. Somber-faced as ever, Javert took it, his fingers gentle on the soft stem. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir. Goodbye, maybe I'll see you tomorrow," Aimée said, smiling. She curtsied again, this time much more enthusiastically, and scampered away, leaving a very surprised Javert standing in front of the café, a wilting daffodil clutched in his fist, dirt still clinging to the narrow little roots.


	2. Chapter 2

II: A Shared Sky

The daffodil didn't take well to Javert's small, dusty home. Setting it on the top shelf of his wardrobe, Javert quickly forgot about it as he removed his thick wool guard uniform and put on a white cotton shirt with wool pants. The day was winding down and he had all but forgotten the little girl with dusty blonde hair and eyes the color of the ocean.

His house was empty, devoid of knick-knacks save for a few murky paintings that clung to the walls and came to light as he walked and lit lamps and candles to light the rooms. Walking to the small kitchen he ripped at a loaf of bread that he had picked up from the baker's a day or two ago and cut at a block of yellow cheese. Javert liked to eat in silence. He tasted the briny salt from the sea as he ate.

At dusk, he built a fire, such was the routine. The early summer night was mild and placid, the air clinging heavily to his breath, yet he still felt like a fire was needed. Javert would never admit that he thought the warm crackling and orange glow from the fireplace was comforting.

Patting his hands free of ash and soot once the flames grew stronger, he walked over to a wide window that sat to the right of the fireplace. Swinging it open, he gazed up at the sparkling stars and his face softened. The stars were strong on a clear night, never judging, and always quiet. Under these quiet illuminations, Javert hummed to himself, his voice matching the inky night.

Soon, he retreated back inside. The armchair that sat next to his bookshelf was beckoning for him to sit down and the bookstand was waiting next to it, the works waiting to be read. Thick volumes of law and order crowded the shelves. Stories of crime and sentences stuffed themselves together in somber tones of gray and brown, the writing on their spines bold and demanding. Picking one up that specialized in the prison systems in north eastern France, Javert read a bit before his head lolled forward and a quiet snore escaped him. And there he slept.

On the other side of town, a quiet little Aimée was readying herself for bed as well. Her room was without fireplace and, in order to make up for the lack of warm flames, she had lined her walls with drawings, dried flowers, ribbons, and anything else that had caught her eye. A nest built by a curious bird that horded undiscovered beauty and importance. Her nightgown was light cotton and her hair was tied in sections with ribbons in order for it to be curled the next day.

A soft knock at her door before it creaked open.

"Aimée, are you ready for bed yet?" a soft, melodious voice asked.

Aimée's mother was nothing like her father. Melanie Lamenté's hair was a warm honey brown and was almost irresistible to be touched. Her cheeks were rosy with a natural blush and her smile was mesmerizing as a gap peeked between her front teeth. A light smattering of freckles dusted her face and her eyes were the same oceanic blue as young Aimée's.

"I'm almost ready, Mama," Aimée said before burrowing under the covers. Her mother entered the room, one hand over her large rounded belly. She was with child.

"Have you said your prayers?" the woman asked, sitting as best she could at the end of Aimée's little straw mattress. Even though Aimée was a young woman of sixteen, her mother insisted on tucking her in every night.

Aimée nodded at her mother's question, annoyed that she was asked every day, "Yes, Mama. I've said them."

"Good, angel," Melanie hummed, bringing the covers up under her daughter's chin. She rubbed her pregnant belly as she started to sing a soft lullaby.

"When's my brother get here?" Aimée asked suddenly, interrupting the quiet song.

Her mother laughed, a warm sound that flowed like honey through the ears. "Are you certain you're having a little brother? Not a sister?"

"Father said it's going to be a boy."

Melanie sighed, "Sometimes your father pretends to know the unknown, angel."

"Well, I hope it's a boy. I would like a little brother," Aimée said, snuggling down into her pillows and scrunching her eyes shut as her mother leaned over and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

"A boy or a girl, we would be equally blessed," Melanie hummed as she smoothed her daughters dusty blonde hair away from her forehead. "Goodnight, angel, sleep tight."

"Goodnight, Mama," Aimée said before she turned over on her side and watched her pregnant mother stand with a small grunt. Melanie smiled at her daughter once more before she blew out the candle that hung on the wall next to the doorway.

Once the room was dark and Melanie's shuffling feet were quiet down the hallway, Aimée sprung out of bed and quickly padded over to the small rectangular window on the opposite side of the room. Opening the weather-worn shutters, she swung herself up onto the wide windowsill and craned her neck back, her oceanic eyes glistening as they gazed up at the clear, night sky. The deep inky blackness was studded with sparkling diamonds and the moon was a thin crescent suspended between the stars.

Every night, no matter what the weather, Aimée would look up to the heavens before she could go to sleep. Even in the rain and sleet, she would peer upwards and scan for the twinkling light of stars. She liked the consistency of them compared to the hustling chaos of French streets.

As she looked out across the night sky, she wondered if the guard she had met that day had liked her flower. He seemed like a cross fellow, his eyes the hard color of jade, yet he seemed kind enough when he stood between her hand her father and let her hide behind his thick wool coat. The guard tolerated her messy dress and grubby face…her pestering flower and her nervousness concerning her father.

Aimée shrugged to nobody in particular as she left her window and crawled back into bed.

The next day was glorious. Javert donned his guard's uniform, even though he was not scheduled to work until that evening, and headed out of his meager home. His lip curled for a moment when he realized that good weather brought floods of people. A market had miraculously set up during the early morning light. Men and woman alike, fishmongers to silk tradesmen, everything under the sun was set out in the late morning air. The flies were already starting to congregate around the fish stands and butchers.

Adjusting his collar against his neck, Javert set out. The shops were nearly chaos, gruff voices shouting and a cloud of profanity and prices floated over the street and scratched at Javert's ears. He sighed and clasped his hands behind his back, glancing at shops and watching the people. He found his gaze lingering on the woman he recognized from the day before, the rug beater. She was purchasing bread from the baker's table, the same slender hands that had forcefully beaten dirt from fabric was now gingerly cradling a golden loaf of bread, still warm from the look of it.

Javert quickly found something else to look at as he continued walking.

"Hello again, _monsieur_," a little, but strong voice said from behind his shoulder. The flower girl, Aimée, had found him, this time clothed in a pale green dress and her blonde hair tamed back into a braided bun. The fabric made her eyes shimmer blue-gray in the daylight.

_She looks like a proper lady once she's clean_, Javert found himself thinking as he stonily regarded her.

"Are you working today, _monsieur_?" Aimée asked, looking over his blue uniform.

"Not until tonight," he replied, turning and continuing walking. He was neither annoyed nor pleased when she followed him. Merely indifferent.

"So why are you in uniform?" her hands were clasped in front of her and her head slightly bowed as she walked, proving that she had had at least some kind of etiquette training.

He glanced down at her, wondering what made her think it was appropriate to be initiating small talk with him

. "Keeps trouble away from me," he finally said, sidestepping a puddle of filth.

She giggled, thinking he was joking with her, but quickly stopped when his stoic expression never changed. She regarded him, looked at the stubble that clung to his chin and his straight-backed stride.

"Sorry," Aimée said, a little bit of color rising to her cheeks, "I thought that was a joke."

Something about her embarrassment unnerved Javert. The man feared awkwardness, so he said, "I almost didn't recognize you without mud all over your clothes." He said it with a tone he wasn't used to, a tone that warranted another soft chuckle from the girl.

"Father was furious…" she said, looking around, "So furious he told me he'd send me to an orphanage if I didn't start acting my age."

"Your father's a harsh man?" Javert asked before he could stop himself.

She shook her head, "Not exactly, he just doesn't like it when his rules are broken"

Javert gave a little grunt, not knowing how else to continue a conversation with the girl.

Aimée, surprisingly wise beyond her sixteen years, noticed that the guard was somewhat uncomfortable. Thinking that she was starting to annoy him, she started to retreat.

"My mother if probably looking for me," she said, "I hope you have a good day, _monsieur." _ She gave a small curtsy and caught his stormy eyes.

Javert gave her a curt nod, "You too, _mademoiselle," _

He watched Aimée turn to leave. He kept an eye on her until she was safe next to a very pregnant woman, whom he assumed as her mother. Javert felt a small pinprick of relief once the girl found her way to someone she knew. He was well aware of the scum that lurked in these markets, waiting for young girls to walk past their traps. Men that waited to snatch up women and drag them back into dirty alleyways and houses, or even bring them to the docks.

Javert's brow furrowed as he wondered why he worried about this little girl. _I am a man of the law…I'm supposed to look out for the safety of others, _he thought to himself, moving his neck from side to side against the scratchy collar of his uniform.

Regardless of the reason, he was secretly content. It was the first time another soul had held a conversation with him, even if it was only for a few minutes and in the company of a young girl. Every human needed a little interaction every now and then, even curious teenagers and stern guards.


	3. Chapter 3

III : Tears, Laughter, and Fireflies

Aimée was wrong in her assessment of her father. He was indeed a harsh man, she just didn't want to speak wrongly of him to the guard out of fear and a loyalty she didn't understand.

By the time she returned home from the market with her mother, dusk had already started to fall. Aimée's father was in the small dining room, sitting at the table with papers and ledgers spread out across the wood. His hair was in a state of disarray and his bloodshot eyes were cradled in dark bags of stress. Aimée did not ignore the empty bottle of wine that lay on its side next to a large marbled ledger.

"Where've you been?" Gérard Lamenté slurred, his words clumsy already in the early evening.

"We've been to the market," his wife answered, keeping a steady hand on her belly as she moved the baskets of food to the pantry. "Are you ready for dinner, my love?"

Aimée crinkled her nose, wondering how her mother could call Gérard such things.

His brow furrowed. "I was ready to eat hours ago!" he boomed, struggling to stand up. "You and the brat left me alone to do all the work while you shopped our money away! And you, girl, what are you doing out of the house after you destroyed my garden?"

Aimée's eyes were not on her father, but instead looking down at her shoes. For a moment, she wondered what the uniformed guard with the thinking eyes and scruffy chin would say if he were here. Unfortunately, as she was lost in thought, she didn't hear her father's question.

He reclaimed her attention with a sharp smack across the face.

"Gérard! Stop that!" Melanie shouted, yet too afraid to get her vulnerable pregnant belly anywhere near the drunk.

Aimée's fingers were cool against her stinging face as tears pricked her eyes. "Mama told me to help her shop today."

"You don't listen to her, you listen to me, understand?" Gérard bellowed, stomping back to the table.

"Honestly, Gérard, I don't know what's wrong with you," Melanie slowly stated, trying to get her husband's attention away from little Aimée as she clambered up the stairs to her room.

There, amidst her ribbons and treasures, the little girl curled up in the corner and hugged her knees. Mama's and Father's voices were getting ever louder and, even now at the age of sixteen, they stung her ears and pricked at her eyes. The sharp stinging of Gérard's hand across her cheek was starting to fade away into a dull ache, sure to bruise.

Staring at her bed, she hummed a lullaby until the voices stopped and dusk had swollen into an inky blackness. Underneath her door, she saw no warm glow of light. Her parents had gone to bed.

The girl stood and grabbed a shawl from the worn wardrobe that sat opposite her bed. Pulling it around her shoulders, she tiptoed downstairs, snatched a few small bread rolls and slipped out the door. The dew was slick against her feet as she dashed across the green grass to the uneven cobblestone of the road. The stars twinkled down at her, guiding her with the help of pearly moonlight to the now deserted square. In the square sat a small fountain. Crossing her legs under the large fabric of her dress, she sat on the stone edge, watching the trickles of water escape cherubs and water creatures. Aimée started to pick at her bread, sniffing from the dampness of the night and the pain from her father between bites

"You shouldn't be out here," came a heavy voice from behind her. She nearly jumped into the water from shock.

"Who is there?" Aimée demanded, whirling around. Through the moonlight, she saw the straight-backed figure of the guard. "Oh, it's you."

"You shouldn't be out here," he repeated, ignoring her surprise. "Why aren't you in your home?"

The girl was silent. Instead, she brought her hand up and cupped her own cheek.

"You should be at home."

"I'm not going back there," she answered, her tone biting.

Javert found himself feeling awkward, surprised by the fire in the young woman's voice .Even from his courteous distance away from her in the dark, he could see anger spark in her eyes. The silence flourished.

"You should go home…you don't know what's out here," he finally said, his hand secure around his baton.

"You're out here. And besides…I'd rather be kidnapped than beaten," Aimée sniffed, wiping her eyes and putting another piece of bread into her mouth. Javert watched her, not wanting to get any closer and wondering what to do.

She turned her head, the moonlight reflecting off of her dusty blonde hair. "Why are you out here? Why aren't you at the wharf, guarding the inmates?"  
"I'm in training to be Inspector," he said, "Part of my training includes nightly patrols."

"So then I should call you Inspector…" she waved a hand around in the darkness. "Inspector What's-Your-Name, considering I don't know it."

He awkwardly cleared his throat. "Javert…my name is Javert."

Aimée thought for a moment, her nose wrinkled up. "What an unfortunate name," she finally said, looking at him.

In the starlight, she noticed as a thick crease form between his heavy brows. His downturned eyes regarded her fixedly. "Excuse me?"

She shook her head, "I'm just kidding. I like your name. Sound's strong. It's a lot better than _Lamenté,"_ she said, her last name making her tone bitter. "Do you remember my name?"  
Javert said nothing, but nodded as Aimée finished off her bread. "

"You don't talk much."

"No, I don't." Javert wasn't about to admit that this was one of the longest conversations he'd held with someone in months. This brusque exchange added on to the chat at the market that morning was starting to add up into more interaction than the man was used to.

"_Mademoiselle,_ why are you out here?" This time when he asked, his voice demanded an answer, yet it was not harsh or unkind.

Aimée's oceanic eyes studied the water in the fountain. "I lied to you when I told you my father wasn't a harsh man earlier." Javert swallowed, wondering why the girl was confessing to him. "He's actually cruel. Today, after Mama and I returned from the market, he was already drunk."

"I see."

"And he struck me, harder than he usually does."

In the darkness, as Javert's eyes adjusted, he could see that one of Aimée's cheeks was mottled with a bruise. She looked over to him and motioned the side of the fountain.

"You could sit down if you wanted."

He swallowed uncomfortably. Javert was not used to this kind of offer or interaction. "I…I should really start to continue on my patrol, _mademoiselle," _he said, slipping his baton on his belt and taking a few cautious steps forward. As he neared, he could see the shining streaks of tears on Aimée's face and he could feel the distaste start to swell in his throat. He swallowed again, trying to force it away, but it was lodged firmly in place. His memory of witnessing Aimée being struck in the square yesterday was flashing behind his eyes.

She looked down, disappointed in his answer, facing the water again. Javert's jaw tightened and he brought his hands forward, looking down at his feet before he glanced back up at the girl, bent forward and silently crying.

"May I escort you home, _Mademoiselle _Lamenté?" he asked before he realized the words had escaped his mouth. She turned and looked at him, standing stiffly with his hands clasped in front of him as he regarded her.

He was amazed when she accepted his offer, sniffing and wiping her eyes free of stray tears. Javert held out his arm for her, which was expected out of courtesy, and she lightly took it. The wool of his jacket was rough under her hand, but she didn't seem to mind.

The odd couple set off down the cobblestones, the heels of his boots making a muffled tap with every step. Their pace was comfortable, not too brisk or too slow. Aimée was silently admiring Javert's arm under his sleeve. It felt solid and strong underneath her small hand and she immediately felt protected.

"What made you want to be a guard?" she asked as they walked.

He cast a sidelong glance towards her. "I want to be a man of the law. I have to start as a guard, then work for Inspector, so on and so forth."

Aimée nodded, "I want to be an artist."

"The world isn't kind to artists, _mademoiselle" _Javert said matter-of-factly.

"Nor is it to people of the law," Aimée fired back.

He regarded her in the moonlight, surprised by her brusque comment. Javert had a habit of studying the people he met, whether it be a passerby on the street or a fellow guard. Now, in the weak light, he felt like it was safe to look over the girl. Javert acknowledged her beauty, even as a young woman, and noted her strong jaw. He pictured what it would look like clenched in stubbornness or slack as she slept. Exhaling to cast the image away, he turned his eyes back to the street ahead.

Out of the corner of her eye, Aimée saw him watching her, his stormy eyes curious in a firm way. It was a little strange for her to be acknowledged by a man that wasn't her father or a screaming market salesman. Aimée decided she enjoyed his company, even if it was gruff and formal.

"When I was little, before my parents moved here, I lived in the countryside," she said, wanting to fill the silence. "The moon and stars were brighter there, but we had to move because Papa was looking for work."

"What does your father do?" Javert responded, finally starting to ease in to conversation.

"He's a tax collector and he also does paperwork for some kind of rich man. I don't understand it," she said, waving her free hand, "But before we moved here, I would always chase fireflies."

"Fireflies?" Javert, a man born of the city streets, had never heard of fireflies.  
"Yes, they're little insects that twinkle like the stars," she explained. "I was always happy when I chased them, but now that I'm older, my father said I'm expected to grow and act like a lady."

Javert looked at her. "That was apparent when you had mud streaked on your dress, _mademoiselle." _

Aimée laughed then, a strong sound that did not match her slight form. Javert felt the corner of his own mouth twitch upwards. It was a welcomed change from the tears and spite that the guard had witnessed when he first came across Aimée sitting on the fountain. He was still uncomfortable in her presence, but he would choose laughter over tears.

When their walk had ended, Javert found that Aimée's house was larger than average. It was comfortable looking, not affected by the poverty that filled the rest of the town and the rest of the country. No one who lived here had probably experienced hunger or cold.

"Well, thank you for escorting me, _Monsieur _Javert," Aimée said, taking back her hand and giving him a small curtsey. "Maybe I'll see you out and about." Her voice was casual.

He gave her a curt little bow as she turned and snuck back into the quiet house. Javert waited a moment after he watched her disappear before he turned to leave. The man was still as serious as ever, yet he felt content after his walk with the young woman. She was brighter than her years, and she would age into quite the beauty for some nobleman to marry.

Out on his patrol, Javert felt a small pang of loneliness. The stars dulled and the night swelled around him without her company. He thought of her laughter. It didn't sound like the light tinkling of bells as he would've imagined, but instead was solid and strong. Javert noted with sadness that he didn't remember the last time he laughed, chuckled, or even smiled from ear to ear.

His mind wandered for the rest of his patrol, and by the time he returned back to his quiet house, he was mentally exhausted. The last thing he thought of before he drifted off to sleep was the twinkling lights fireflies .


	4. Chapter 4

IV: Business

Three days later, the mayor of Toulon was having a birthday celebration. Mayor Beaudet was aging in at fifty-seven. The party was to be held at sundown and Aimée's father, a man of finance, was invited. Therefore, it was expected for her to attend as well. Her mother was hung up in bed rest, the baby in her belly fussy and kicking. Aimée was not thrilled about making an outing with just her father.

The seamstress had finished a new dress for her, a gown in a shimmering champagne color with gold seams.

"I want you to look your best," Gérard Lamenté had stated, "If we impress Beaudet, that means business for me. And besides, I hear his nephew is looking for a wife. He's a wealthy man. A wealthy man indeed." Something glinted in his eye when he said this that Aimée didn't like.

"I'm only sixteen, Papa," she responded, rolling her eyes as she brought the dress upstairs.

"Your mother and I were married when she was fifteen, Aimée," he called after her as he walked back to his own room to get washed, shaven, and dressed.

The gown was hard to put on by herself, but luckily Anna, the household maid, was there to help. She was twenty-two, and traveled to Toulon trying to get to Paris. However, she had run out of funds and the Lamenté's had hired her for cooking and cleaning.

"This is quite the gown, _mademoiselle," _Anna had said, her brow furrowed in concentration as she laced up Aimée's tight corset.

The ribs of whale bone were tight and pressing against Aimée's ribcage, making it hard to breathe. "A little bit looser, if you please, Anna."

"But it's supposed to be tight, miss."

"I want to go to a birthday party, not pass out in a carriage. Make it looser." The ribs of the corset loosened and Aimée took a comfortable breath in. "Thank you, Anna."

The maid only nodded in answer as she brought over the dress, the fabric shimmering in the evening light from the window.

Stepping into the garment, Aimée was laced up into it. Turning to the mirror, she was surprised of how she looked. The bodice of the dress clung to her frame greedily, making her waist look tiny and curved, before it pooled out into an excess of skirts. Aimée's dusty blonde hair complimented the shade of the dress perfectly and her stormy eyes seemed to burn with a cool fire underneath dark lashes. A braided bun sat behind her head and curled tendrils of tarnished gold hung around her face. She swallowed past a string of pearls.

"You look beautiful, miss," Anna offered as she finished the last of the ribbons for the dress.

"Yes, I must say I can clean up pretty good." Aimée responded, smiling with rose lips. She turned to leave, a little bit wobbly from her heeled shoes. Anna helped her into the hall and down the stairs. Melanie, wrapped in a shawl and sitting in a chair, smiled at her daughter as she descended.

"My, you're beautiful, Angel," she said, her smile glowing, "You didn't get your looks from me, and certainly not your father. You're a miracle."

Aimée's own smile outshone her mother's. "Don't say that, you're beautiful even in bed rest, Mama." As she talked with her mother, her brooding about spending the evening with her father disappeared. She was going to have fun at the Mayor's birthday. Looking like this, how could she not?

"Aimée, are you ready?" Gérard boomed, coming in and adjusting the cuff of his coat. His own blonde hair was tied into a ponytail that sat at his neck. He was clean shaven, save for the large sideburns that claimed the sides of his face. "Melanie, you should be in bed."

"I wanted to see you two off, my love." Aimée looked away at her mother's gushing voice. "My beautiful family. I wish I could go with you."

Gérard walked forward and whispered something kind in Melanie's ear, causing her cheeks to flush with red. For a moment, Aimée watched them and wanted to forget all about his yelling and force. Wanted to forget that, three days ago, her cheek was housing the sting from his hand.

The clopping of hooves on cobblestone brought Gérard back to Aimée's side. "The carriage is here," he declared, adjusting the starched collar of his shirt and putting a firm hand on Aimée's shoulder.

"Goodbye, Mama," Aimée said, receiving a warm kiss on her cheek as she hugged her mother. The carriage, pulled by two roan horses, was a dark cheery wood, the tall tires painted black. Her father helped her climb into the cab, then slid in across from her, shutting the door behind him. The two were jostled a little as the carriage started rolling on its way.

"The mayor's nephew's name is Philippe and he is twenty-four," her father said, looking at her as if she was expected to write down notes. " I expect you to be perfect tonight, understand? I want to work for Beaudet and his nephew has inherited enough money for us to live comfortably for the rest of our days."

_So this is a business scheme for you, isn't it?_ Aimée thought, her eyes darkening in the bouncy carriage. "I'll be sure to act the perfect lady, Papa," she said instead.

He gave a satisfied grunt as he turned his head and looked out the boxed window. Whatever good will her mother had instilled in her before they left the house was starting to dwindle as Aimée neared the mayor's estate.

Sitting atop the highest hill outside the reaches of the hustle and bustle of the city streets, Mayor Beaudet's estate was nothing short of extravagant. A fan of Roman architecture, six large pillars stood in front of the wide oak doors, holding up a patio roof of marble. The windows glowed with candlelight and good cheer. Men in black coats and women in colored gowns climbed the thirty or so stairs that led to the doors. Carriages looped around a circular drive, a large fountain featuring a stag at the center.

The chirping of violins welcomed Aimée and her father as the door of their carriage was opened by one of the many servants that were under Beaudet's employment. To her right, she recognized the older gentleman that owned the bank escorting his wife. She looked to be only a few years older than Aimée. Her father's hand against her back wiped away her look of surprise as he escorted her up the steps and to the estate.

"Names?" a tall, dark-haired butler asked as they stood in front of the door. Aimée craned her neck to see as far as she could inside. The décor was gold and crème, platters of tasty hors d'oeuvres and champagne making their rounds on the hands of well-dressed maids.

"Gérard Lamenté and my daughter, Aimée Lamenté," Gérard had put on a false look of kindness and pleasure for the servant.

"Ah, right here, _monsieur,"_ the butler said, finding the name on the list. "You are welcome to go in. Enjoy your evening!"

Inside, the sounds of clinking glass, laughter, and strings wafted their way and wrapped themselves around the room. Aimée's feet were walking on black and white checkered marble floors and expensive gowns swept past her. Her father reached over and plucked two glasses of sparkling champagne off of a passing tray.

Handing one to his daughter he leaned over and whispered, "Sip it. Delicately."

She did as instructed, feeling the tart fizz pop its way across her tongue. Deciding she liked the taste of the alcohol, she sipped again and studied the crowd. There were a few men that she recognized from her father's business. Stone-faced men with medals and shoulder cuffs were from the military, their wives smiling politely.

"Ah, Gérard! How nice to see you!" came a loud voice from Aimée's left. She turned her head and saw a portly man coming towards him, beaming from celebration and wine. Mayor Beaudet. "And is this your daughter? My! She's grown to be quite the beauty!" His lips were warm as he politely kissed her hand and his bushy moustache tickled her skin. Aimée smiled, but her grin did nothing to match her father's.

"What a gathering you have going on here, _monsieur,"_ Aimée said, her voice strung with over-falsified politeness and charm. _Just like I was taught,_ Aimée thought. "Your home is the most beautiful I've ever seen!"

Beaudet dismissed her compliment with a wave of his hand, "Bah, this old place could use some pitching up," he grumbled under his thick beard, "And please, call me Beaudet. Everyone else does in this town." He turned to Gérard. "You better watch out, Lamenté, the men will be crowding her tonight!" he chortled, giving Aimée's father a wink.

"I was actually hoping you'd introduce her to your nephew tonight," Gérard suggested, sipping his flute of champagne. "He is here, correct?"

"That boy? Oh yes, he's here. Sniffing around the wine cellar probably," Beaudet didn't look too pleased. "He'll find you easily enough, my dear," the mayor said, turning his attention back to Aimée, "The boy has a habit of sniffing out beautiful women."

Suddenly, the violins and cellos chirped up in Vivaldi's Spring and Beaudet grinned from ear to ear. "Ah! My favorite! Come, dance!" he quickly took Aimée's hand and led her to the center of the marbled floor. Soon they were surrounded by other couples dancing to the music.

Mayor Beaudet wasn't a fine dancer at all, Aimée soon realized. His hands were clammy and his feet were clumsy, but he laughed and smiled, making light of his awful coordination. Aimée's mother taught her how to dance at a very young age, and the young girl was surefooted in her heels, but she stumbled around giggling with the mayor.

Soon, the time came to switch partners, and before another man came over, Aimée slipped off to the sidelines to watch. She was short of breath from laughter and the mayor had stepped on her feet once or twice, however she wasn't insulted or embarrassed. It had been the hardest she'd laughed in a long time.

As she stood next to a pillar, she surveyed the crowd, dancers and all. There, standing with a group of military soldiers, stood a tall man with unmistakable straight-backed posture. She looked at the stubble clinging to his chin and noticed the stormy green eyes as he spoke to his military acquaintances.

She approached him with a smile and lightly touched the guard's arm in greeting. "Well, hello _monsieur_ Javert. What a surprise seeing you here."

The man turned and looked at her. For a moment, his eyes were curious as he observed her, not recognizing Aimée in her fine dress and perfect hair. Once his gaze fell on her stormy oceanic eyes, he nodded in recognition.

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté_,_" he said, giving her a curt bow. He turned to the other men he was speaking to and introduced Aimée. "I'm surprised to see you here as well," Javert said to her after introductions were finished.

"My father is a man of finance. He knows Mayor Beaudet, so naturally we were cast an invitation. What about you?" Aimée asked, looking over Javert's navy coat, pinned with a medal that held the justice seal of Toulon, and his hands gloved in white cotton.

"I'm being promoted," the man's stern eyes were lightly laced with pride, however his mouth stayed a straight line.

"To Inspector? I remember you saying something like that."

Javert shook his head as the other military men wandered off in search of more food and drink. "No, just a higher form of guard. I'm very close to Inspector, however."

Aimée nodded, "That's very good to hear."

"Yes."

The air thickened as both of them searched for something else to say.

"Did you dance?" Aimée blurted. Only after she asked the question did she realize how ridiculous it was. She felt the heat of embarrassment start to creep up her neck.

Javert shook his head as he looked towards the center of the room. Twirling couples continued to sway to the music. "I'm…not one much for dancing." His tone was a little uneasy.

"Neither is the mayor," Aimée said, chuckling.  
Javert picked up on the strong tones of her amusement in the short laughter.

"By the looks of_ Monsieur _Beaudet, I would say that he doesn't look to light on his feet," he said, looking at the loud, cherry-faced mayor as he stumbled his way across the floor. This got another smile out of the girl, but Javert's face was still as stone. 

She looked at him. "You don't smile much, do you?"

Javert looked down at her. "No. There's not really much to smile about in the shipyards."

The girl nodded and sipped at her drink, the pearls at her neck moving when she swallowed. "Yes, I suppose you're right, but you're not at the shipyards now, are you?"

At this, amazingly, Aimée caught sight of the corners of his mouth barely curl upwards. The green of his eyes sparked with life and he leaned back a little. "No, I'm not, thankfully," Javert said, a new note to his voice.

At this, Aimée gave him a large smile, her teeth white and even against rose-painted lips. "Here, excuse me a moment _monsieur," _Aimée said, holding up a hand gracefully. Javert nodded and watched her turn and walk after a waiter that held a silver platter of treats and a few glasses of champagne. She returned with another flute cradled next to her own in one hand and two flaky pastries in the other.

Aimée held out the hand that carefully balanced two glasses to Javert. "Here, have a drink, Javert," she said, momentarily forgetting a formal title before his name.

The guard raised an eyebrow. "I'm not one much for drinking, _mademoiselle," _ he said, trying to hold up a hand politely.

"Nonsense, this is a birthday party. And please, call me Aimée," she insisted.

Used to turning down drinks from all sorts of people, Javert was surprised as he took the glass from her hand and took a sip. The bubbles fizzed in his mouth and the tartness bit at the back of his throat. It had been a while since he had drank anything besides cheap red wine.

"There, that wasn't so bad was it?" she asked, smiling and taking a less than dainty bite of one of the pastries. "I would offer you one of these, but I am absolutely starving."

Javert gave a little smile again as he watched her destroy the rest of the dessert in one bite, red crème sticking to the corners of her mouth. "Your manners don't match your clothes, _mademoiselle,_" he said, reaching into his pocket and handing her a handkerchief.

She rolled her blue eyes. "Oh please. My entire personality doesn't match any of this," she said, waving her hand. Javert started to recognize the movement and decided that it was a habit of hers. She took the handkerchief and wiped her mouth. "You saw me in the market that day, covered in dirt. I am completely out of my element here."

_So am I,_ Javert wanted to say. Instead he stayed quiet. "What made you want to dig in the garden at your age?" he asked, taking another sip of his light drink. He then realized that his question might've come across as condescending.

Aimée didn't notice. "At the time, I thought it was a good idea. It was such a dreary day, I thought that I would hand out some flowers, brighten some people up a bit. But, I couldn't find the sheers, so I had to just dig them up." She shrugged and bit at her second pastry. "In hindsight, I probably looked insane, covered in dirt and holding scraggly daffodils out to everyone." She laughed her strong laugh, and scrunched her eyes up as a small snort escaped her.

"Oops, I'm sorry, that was embarrassing."

Javert shook his head, "Not at all, _mademoiselle_."

He was starting to grow comfortable as he talked to her and sipped his drink. The music had switched to Vivaldi's Concerto for Two Cellos. A little darker than Spring, but a fine piece of music nonetheless. The dance floor thinned with the change, and Aimée spotted her father, Mayor Beaudet, and a dark-haired young man she did not recognize walking over. Javert noticed how she stiffened. Etiquette was a strong force.

"Aimée, might I introduce Anton Beaudet," her father said, gesturing to the young man.

"Pleasure to meet you," Anton said, his voice a calm tone.

Aimée curtseyed, holding out her hand so Anton could kiss it lightly. His eyes were brown and a stray lock fell to his face, making him look like a mere boy. His smile was crooked, one end curling upwards in a sly way. Aimée decided he looked like a fox. A sly, young, little fox. Little did she know it, but she shuffled a millimeter closer to Javert as she studied him.

For the first time since introducing Anton, Gérard noticed Javert. As his recognition grew, the man's eyes darkened. "I know you," her father said, narrowing his eyes and pointing at the guard.

Javert gave a curt bow out of politeness. "I do believe we've met before." He didn't mean for the comment to be made out of sarcasm, but he did take notice out of the corner of his eye as Aimée brought a hand to her mouth to hide her small smile.

"Javert, you never told me you know the Lamenté's!" Mayor Beaudet exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear and clapping the stiff guard on the back.

"I had only very recently made their acquaintance," Javert said, moving his head to adjust his collar. "I came across _Mademoiselle _Lamenté and her father a few days ago in the square."

"Fascinating," Beaudet said, turning to Gérard and bringing up a hand to pinch the side of his moustache. "Javert here was just promoted as overseer to the shipyard here in Toulon. This man has quite the career ahead of him when it comes to the law. In training right now to become Inspector."

Javert did not do well to gushing. He clasped his hands behind his back uncomfortably and his eyes darted from person to person. "Only if I'm lucky, Mayor Beaudet," he said.

"Nah, a man with as much talent as you needs no luck, Javert." The man, staggering a little from his drinks, clapped Javert's shoulder again.

Gérard's eyes were dark and narrowed as he watched Javert. Javert's own green eyes held Aimée's father in their grasp. Any previous comfort he had eased himself into around Aimée was now gone, swept clean and replaced with austerity. Aimée noticed the tension between them and wished she could cut it.

The violins chirped up again in an up tempo waltz, and Anton motioned to Aimée, snapping her out of her thoughts concerning her father and Javert. "Care to dance, _mademoiselle?_" he asked, his mouth curling into that sly grin that didn't quite sit well with her.

She paused for a moment too long and caught sight of her father's hard eyes, now turned to her as his jaw clenched in expectation.

"Um, yes, I would love to," she stammered, recovering quickly as she took his hand. His skin was cool and smooth. Little boy hands that never touched a shovel or lifted a board. As she was being led away to the center of the marble floor, she wondered what Javert's hands would've felt like from the shipyards. His skin was probably dry from the salt air, rough from work and his grip as strong as his gaze.

The second Anton placed his palm on her waist, the thought was driven away. He was strong on his feet, elegant and possessing a controlled confidence that the spluttering mayor lacked. Anton's fox grin leered down at her and she blinked in the bashful way that women often did, her eyes fluttering down to watch her feet.

"You need not watch your feet, _Mademoiselle _Aimée," he said, spinning her around the marble floor, "You are a true grace in dance." His offered complement was sincere.

Aimée felt a bashful heat start to rise up her neck, "Thank you, _monsieur," _she said.

"Call me Anton," he murmured, daring to pull her closer to him as they danced. Aimée felt her heart quicken and for a moment, almost stumbled in her shoes. She let out a surprised, embarrassed giggle, not knowing how else to respond in the situation.

"You're laugh sounds like heaven," Anton said, the charm sliding out easily between his teeth.

Out of hearing distance from the young man's murmured words, Javert couldn't help himself from watching the two dance. His back was stiff as he stood next to Mayor Beaudet, his hands clasped in front of him. The mayor leaned over and said something to Gérard Lamenté, smiling and patting his belly with a shapely hand. Javert glanced at Aimée's father and couldn't help but clench his jaw a little tighter as his eyes fell on the other man's hands, hands that struck young women in public.

Javert sniffed as he turned his attention back to the dance floor. He didn't trust Beaudet's nephew. He'd seen those types of eyes before…eyes that lured women down alleys and persuaded favors with just one wink. The guard remembered his mother whispering in a distant memory, _Crooked grins mark crooked souls._

It was very obvious to Javert what Aimée's father was pulling with the mayor and his nephew. Gérard was hoping for a marriage, one not of love but business, uniting him with Beaudet's finances. Gérard no doubt already had back-door scams in order to swindle money right under Beaudet's cherry nose.

_It's none of your business, Javert. Why are you concerning yourself with another family's matters?_ Javert thought, looking down awkwardly at the champagne glass that he still cradled in his hand, the alcohol inside going flat and warm from the heat of his palm. As he took one more sip, he realized with disappointment that it delight his senses as it did before. Now it tasted sour and acerbic.

Crinkling his nose, he threaded his way through the crowd and made his way to the massive front balcony, praying that the night air would fill his lungs.


	5. Chapter 5

V: Fear the Night Brings

The party continued well into the night. The strong tones of midnight church bells wove their way through the dark and over to Beaudet's estate. The crowd had thinned, however the mayor's mansion was still filled with celebrating patrons. Beaudet himself had consumed too much drink, and was now staggering around his own home slurring things that most could only partially understand. But, his laugh was strong and a smile never left his face.

Aimée herself was starting to feel a light giddiness behind her eyes as she consumed more spirits. Her vision was starting to shallow and her smile was unsteady. She had danced more than she ever had, and her feet were starting to ache in her shoes, but she ignored the discomfort as Anton continued to shower her with complements and handsome smiles. Aimée had no idea where her father had wandered off too, probably to snoop around Beaudet's library.

"It's midnight, Aimée," Anton said, boldly wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to his side.

She giggled and brought a hand to her face. "I guess it is."

"Would you care to accompany me on a walk? It's getting so stuffy and rowdy in here, no place for a beauty such as you." The fox raised an eyebrow as he looked at his little duckling.

She paused scanning the crowd. "Um…I don't know. I don't know where my father is," she said, chewing on the inside of her lip.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," his smile was closer to her neck as he leaned over, "I'll protect you from the dark, _mademoiselle._"

Aimée stifled back a giggle again and finally nodded, taking his arm as they threaded their way through the crowd. The night greeted them with a puff of cool, damp air. It chilled the back of her neck where sweat had started to bead and she tipped her head back a little.

"This is much better," she murmured, closing her eyes and swaying a little on her feet.

"I agree. Shall we look at my uncle's gardens? I hear they are quite beautiful."

The grass was starting to dew, and Aimée briefly worried about the hem of her dress. Soon, the thought easily slipped through her spinning head. Anton's hand was strong against her back and he looked quite handsome in the moonlight, albeit a little thin. It wasn't too often that Aimée observed thin men. Her own father was starting to get some extra pounds in the middle and Mayor Beaudet was in no way fit. Even Javert had broad shoulders and some meat on his bones. But Anton looked as if he could slip through a crack.

The roses were just starting to bloom, and a couple white petals had unfurled from the center of the flower to gleam in the moonlight. A trickling fountain sat at the center of the mayor's garden, surrounded by four foot tall hedges that provided privacy. The two sat at a bench, wrought iron and wood, and listened to the dripping water. Above them, the stars glittered brightly, almost as if they were celebrating with the rest of Toulon.

Through the fabric of her dress, Aimée felt Anton start to rub her back smoothly. His hand traveled up and started to knead at the base of her neck. She had to prevent herself from stiffening. Never had she been touched like that before, and she knew not how to respond. Even in her tipsy haze, Aimée knew that they were not officially courting. Were men supposed to respond this way before courtship?

"You are very beautiful, you know that?" Anton murmured. She turned to look at him, almost not recognizing this new deepness in his voice.

She was about to respond to his compliment when his lips pressed against hers in the night. Shocked, she sat motionless at first, but as he got more persistent, she felt her eyes fall close and she began to respond. His lips were warm, a little chapped from the dry salt air of Toulon, but not unpleasant. Aimée dared to smile though the kiss.

Anton brought up his hand to her face, pushing himself into her. He deepened the kiss, and soon it grew forceful. She opened her eyes and put her hands against his chest and gave him a light push. He ignored her as he broke the kiss and moved down to her neck.

"Anton, this isn't right." Soon, any trace of champagne had left her system. She tried to stand up. "Please stop." He ignored her and wrapped his arms around her tightly, making it near impossible to move. She felt his lips press against her exposed collarbone.

Aimée started to grow frightened. "Stop!" She stood up as best she could, but Anton grabbed on to her and she stumbled, falling into the dewy grass. Before she could struggle to stand, he was on top of her, his weight making it hard to breathe. Anton clapped his large hand over her mouth.  
"You've led me on all night," he hissed, "you'll like this."

Her eyes widened in fear and she struggled, thinking of all the stories her mother had told her in warning. _Look out for men in the dark. The dark is kind to them but harmful to young ladies like you, Angel._

Aimée's cries were muffled and scared little tears started to well up in her eyes as Anton reached down with his free hand and tried to lift the excess of her skirts. Her eyes clenched shut and tears rolled down her face as she felt his soft palm rest on her leg. His fingers curled around the soft flesh of her thigh through the thin fabric of her undergarments. Anton's grip turned possessive and she screamed a muffled scream of pain through the hand that was over her mouth.

Thinking as fast as she could, she sank her teeth into the flesh of Anton's palm. He yowled in pain as blood started to seep out of his wound.

"HELP!" she screamed, struggling and kicking. Anton reared back and punched her square in her face. Her head crumbled to the side, whimpering. She tried to open her eyes, but the night swirled around her. Soon, it grew solid around her eyes and she became unconscious.

Javert, bored with standing outside the doors of Beaudet's mansion, decided to go for a walk. He enjoyed the cool air. The dew from the lawn slicked against his black boots, making them appear glossy in the night. As he walked, the laughter and celebration from the birthday party thinned and dimmed away. Soon, he was alone and silent under the stars.

The low tones of the midnight bell lazily made its way to his ears. For the first time that night, he allowed himself to become truly relaxed. His shoulders slumped a little, and he reached up and undid the clasp that kept his decorative collar close to his neck. Javert figured he'd take a walk through Beaudet's property before he allowed himself to make his way back to his home.

He thought of everyone back in the house and wondered how long they would be staying. This was by far the most extravagant party he had allowed himself to go to, one of the only parties, actually, and he knew nothing about how long he should stay.

In the privacy of the night and stars, Javert thought of the young woman, Aimée. She was indeed beautiful, even under the abuse from her father. For the first time in his life, Javert felt sorry for someone. He felt sorry for Aimée, being used as a business pawn by her father. She needed to marry someone rich and kind, not sly and entitled like Beaudet's nephew. Javert liked the mayor, thought highly of him, but the man's young relative did not sit well at all.

She was the first person in a very long time that had spoken with him, or even acknowledged his presence. At the party out of hundreds of people, she chose to have a light conversation with him. It was nothing special, he knew, she probably did it out of politeness and courtesy. He pulled out the handkerchief that he had offered her and saw the red smears of dessert on the fabric. He dared a small smile in the darkness.

Javert walked for some time more. After a while, he found himself atop a small knoll that rose gently above Beaudet's garden. Rosebushes, shrubberies, and a small fountain sat in the moonlight. He looked over the land and felt a pang of jealousy. Not even in his dreams could he afford acres like this. Looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was around, Javert sat atop the hill, ignoring the cool dew.

Then, his ears picked up. From down below him, he could hear voices. A woman's…sounding uneasy. He stood and craned his neck forward to try and see through the night.

"…please stop."

Javert cocked his head to the side and took a few steps closer. As he neared, he could see the shape of two people sitting on the bench. A man and a woman. They looked to be courting each other, the man's face buried in the woman's neck.  
Ashamed and embarrassed, Javert turned to leave without being spotted. But, just as he was about to turn his back to the young couple, he saw the woman fall to the ground. The unmistakable shimmer of a champagne colored dress cut through the darkness and caught his eye.

_Mademoiselle Aimée…_

Anton was on top of her, his hand clasped over her mouth. Javert didn't hesitate. He rushed as fast as he could down the rest of the hill. When Aimée's scream for help cut through the night, Javert stumbled in the thick grass. His knee dug into the ground suddenly as he struggled to get back up.

He finally made it to the garden when he saw Anton strike the girl with a closed fist. She crumbled then, her hair splayed and dress ruined. Beaudet's nephew then struggled to rip at the skirts of her dress.

"Stop! What's going on here?" The ferocity in his own voice surprised Javert.

Anton's head whirled around.  
"Oh, it's you. Nothing. Leave us be."

Javert neared him, his fists clenched in his white gloves, the cotton tight against his fingers. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Anton seemed to realize he was straddling a young woman. He stood between Javert and Aimée. "The _mademoiselle _and Iwere trying to enjoy some privacy."

"Stand aside," Javert ordered as he looked at Anton. His green eyes were sharp and his lip was lightly curled, as if the man himself was snarling. Javert leveled his feet apart and lightly bent his knees, ready for a fight. He studied Anton in the night. The young man was taller than Javert, had a farther reach, yet he lacked discipline. Years in the shipyards had prepared Javert for fighting.

"I don't have to take orders from a man like you, my family owns you," Anton sneered, reaching up and swiping a hand over his hair to get it out of his eyes. "You're a guard. How you ever managed to wander out of the shipyards is beyond me."

Javert didn't pay the young fool's words any attention. All he registered was that he was being uncooperative to his order. As fast as a lightning strike, Javert grabbed the fancy silk of Anton's shirt. He pulled him close.

"Get out of here," he growled, his voice sounding like a bear's rumble. "I highly doubt your uncle would want to know you were out here trying to rape the daughter of a close friend."

Anton's eyes narrowed. "That's not what I was doing. And besides, no one would believe you."

"I saw you strike the girl…she will no doubt have a mark. I will say nothing to your uncle."

Anton held up his hands, "Alright…I'll go. I don't know why you're so concerned with her."

Javert didn't answer him as he let go of the young man's shirt. Anton stumbled backwards, away from the guard's commanding presence.

Then…in probably the worst decision of the young man's life, he hauled back and punched Javert square in the jaw. The guard was surprised by the scrawny kid's powerful punch, and he stumbled to the side for a couple steps. Anton yowled, clutching at his now-bruised fist. He had punched with the same hand that Aimée had bit, and he had forgotten about the tender bite-mark that riddled his palm.

Javert recovered quickly. He lowered his center of gravity, and lunged with a blow to Anton's chest. A crack resounded somewhere in his ribs and Javert followed suit with another punch across his opponent's cheek. Anton's own teeth clenched down on the inside of his mouth and blood spattered against Javert's white glove.

Anton turned to the nearest shrub and retched into the leaves. He sounded horrible as he tried to reclaim the air that had been punched out of his lungs. When his desperate gasping and heaving had died down, he whirled around, blindly swinging.

Javert easily sidestepped and dodged every punch he threw. Anton flung a desperate right-handed haymaker, and Javert blocked it against his forearm. Wrapping his other arm around Anton's head, Javert kicked his knees out from under him and slammed the young man's face into the damp earth.

"I told you to get out of here!" he grunted as Anton tried to struggle. He was on top of his opponent, his knee digging into Anton's lower back. "I don't want to harm you any further, but by the grace of God, I will if I have to."

"OK!" Anton shrieked past a mouthful of dirt and grass, "I'll go!"

"Wise choice," Javert grumbled, bracing himself as he got up. Anton lay on the ground for a few moments, struggling to catch his breath as Javert's weight was lifted from him. When he finally got up, he gave a look, now filled with more fear than anger, to Javert. Turning, he hobbled as quickly as he could back through the night.

When Anton had disappeared into the darkness, Javert turned and knelt over Aimée. Her dress was ripped, showing more of her legs and cleavage than what was appropriate, and Javert unbuttoned his stiff dress coat uniform. He wrapped it around her as best he could and lifted her up into his arms. She was heavier than he expected. A healthy weight.

Her head lolled back in her unconsciousness, and through the moonlight, Javert could see the bruises on her cheek and cradling her eye. Javert bit his lip, and realized that blood was trickling out of the corner of his mouth from Anton's first strike.

As he made his way back to the mansion, she murmured. The word weren't understandable, but as she struggled to come to, she tucked her head up against his chest. Javert stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable. He had never really held a woman this closely before. His arms were tight and protective around her, and even though the fight had left him drained, he made it back to Beaudet's estate. As he neared, he heard the booming voices.

"Aimée!" they called, "Aimée!"

"Here, she's over here!" Javert yelled, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. He looked down at the young woman he held in his arms. "We're almost there," he murmured softly, hoping that this was some kind of comfort, "Almost there."

"Javert, is that you?" Beaudet's voice was suddenly clear, and Javert wondered how a man could sober up so quickly."

"Yes, some one help me," Javert gasped as he struggled to climb the hill towards the house. After fighting and carrying a woman over acres, he was exhausted.  
The shapes of Beaudet, Aimée's father, and a few servants found him. Gérard hurried and scooped his daughter from Javert's arms.

"Oh my God, thank you so much for finding her! Anton came back, said that they were attacked, I was so worried!"

_So the man actually cares for his daughter_, Javert thought as he bent over and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His white undershirt was damp with humidity and sweat.

"Put her inside, my nurses will look after her," Beaudet said to Gérard. Aimée murmured something, but he was already starting to carry her away. The servants followed them.

"Here, Javert, drink," Beaudet said, once they were gone. He handed the guard a heavy leather flask.

Javert swallowed large mouthfuls of acidic red wine and felt it bite at the base of his throat and nose as he drank. "Thank you," he said, handing the drink back to the mayor.

"Javert, Anton told us that he and _Mademoiselle _Lamenté were cornered in the garden by a gypsy bandit. He was attacked and he ran back here to alert for help." Beaudet's eyes shone in the darkness. "But I'm no idiot. I know what happened."

Javert stood up fully now, his heart in his throat for a terrifying second. After all, he did kick most of the life out of the mayor's own nephew. "You do?" Javert was back to being stiff, rehearsed.

Beaudet nodded and looked up to the sky. "I'm no fool. I know my nephew is not a romantic. In fact, he'd rather hassle prostitutes than court a woman as beautiful as Aimée Lamenté. When he was gone, I feared the worst for the young woman."

Javert swallowed back his fear momentarily as he listened to what the mayor was saying.

"He has raped before, my money has covered it up. But this… the daughter of a close friend…I can't believe the little idiot would try anything as shameful as this."

He turned to Javert and clapped him on the back again. "You are a good man, Javert. Never convince yourself otherwise. You did the right thing. She'll be kept here for a week or two, my nurses will see to her. When she's feeling better, I'm sure she'll want to thank you." The mayor's eyes twinkled in mischief, "Don't worry about being punished for harming Anton. It was about time the boy had a good ass-kicking."

And, in spite of the unfortunate end to his birthday celebration, the mayor threw his head back and laughed.


	6. Chapter 6

VI: Sweeping Under Rugs

When Aimée woke, she wanted to die. Pain pounded behind her eyes and the room was painfully bright, even though it was only lit with a few warm candles to help the two nurses see through the gloom. Vision was blurred out of her left eye and her felt as if someone had smashed it with a bat. She groaned and struggled to rise.

A nurse in a black and white gown hurried over to her and began fussing, her fingers fluttering around like the wings of a spooked bird. "It'll be best if you stay lying down, dear," the nurse said, her voice quiet and soft as down. Aimée struggled to look at her through her obstructed vision.

"Where am I?" she croaked, her lip split and painful.

"Mayor Beaudet's home. I'm Sister Elliot and that's Sister Mary," the nurse said, nodding over her shoulder to her partner. Sister Mary brought over a porcelain wash bin and pitcher, a large cloth hanging over the side. Aimée discovered then that she was lying in only her underclothes under the bed-sheets.

Sister Elliot noticed as the girl's eyes widened in embarrassment, and she clucked her tongue, smiling comfortably. "Oh, don't be bashful, Miss, this is our job. We're all women here. Now then, let's get you cleaned up." Her hands were business-like as they removed the blanket and sheet. Removing Aimée's undershirt, she was unbothered by the girl's nakedness. She had been a midwife before a nurse of the church, and had seen a woman's chest countless times, seen women bring a hungry child to their breast without a second thought. It was all anatomy to her.

The water in the basin was warm and the cloth soothing as Sister Elliot gently scrubbed away the dirt and sweat that clung to Aimée's skin. As the damp warmth spread to her collarbone, the girl stiffened, remembering Anton's mouth forcefully pressed against it. Tears started to well up in the girl's eyes as she remembered what had happened in the garden…as she remembered where the pain had come from.

"Hush now, child," Sister Elliot said as the other nurse started to run a brush through her dusty blonde hair, tugging past the tangles. "You're safe in our care now."

Once the nurse was finished cleaning up her upper torso and stomach, she helped Aimée put on a clean chemise. Then, she picked up the basin and helped Aimée remove her ruined petticoat. The undergarment the nurses gave Aimée was of soft linen and ended halfway down her thigh, so it provided a little bit of privacy from the nurses. Across her left leg was a large purple bruise, no doubt left by Anton's harsh grip as he held her down in the grass.

Even though Sister Elliot was gentle as she cleansed the girl's legs, she winced as the cloth passed over the bruise. Then, towards her shins, Sister Elliot began to use a little more force to make sure Aimée was clean. When she was finished, the nurse tucked in the bed sheet around Aimée tightly, swaddling her in more linen and warmth.

"Your bruises will stay for a while," Sister Elliot explained as Mary finished brushing Aimée's hair. "Your father and the mayor want to keep you here for maybe about a week to make sure nothing else is broken or harmed, alright?"

"Alright…thank you both so much," Aimée said, her voice scratchy from her dry throat.

"Here child, drink some water," Sister Elliot handed Aimée a small porcelain cup filled with water. The girl gratefully downed it in one drink, the cool water spilling across her tongue and soothing her aching head and parched throat.

"Now, your father will probably stop in a bit after we leave you, but try and get some rest, dear. Your body needs it."

The two nurses turned to leave as Aimée sat up a little to sweep her hair around her head so it cascaded over her shoulder. She felt her body relax onto the down mattress. The room was in was starting to lose its sheer brightness as her eyes were starting to fully adjust. Her left eye was still nearly swollen shut, and it pained her to think of what she looked like in a mirror.

The room was cream plaster and oak, white sheets draped in front of the windows. Through the fabric, darkness was starting to wan into a dusky sort of light. Dawn was well on its way. There was a wooden cross on the wall opposite her, surrounded by a wreath of what looked like olive leaves. A dresser sat at the foot of the bed and a chair in the corner.

Overall, Aimée decided, the room was boring.

There was a soft knock on the door. Her voice was soft as she beckoned them to enter. Gérard walked in, and Aimée was amazed to see the sight of her father with dried tear stains on his cheeks, his eyes red and bloodshot.

"Oh, my dear child, thank goodness," he said, crossing himself as he hurried to her bedside.

Aimée's brows knitted together as she watched her father. She had never before seen him act this way, teary-eyed and thankful.

"I was so afraid when Anton burst in and said that you two were attacked," Gérard said, walking to the corner and pulling up the chair next to her bedside. "He said that it was a gypsy bandit that tried to rob him. When he refused, he said the madman attacked. I was so worried about you…I feared the worst."

Aimée's eyes darkened. "Wait…Anton said that we were attacked by a gypsy?"

Gérard leaned forward, his hair escaping from the ribbon that held it back, "Yes, don't you remember?"

"I…no. I don't."

"Well, he ran for help, and then we found Javert carrying you through the-"

"Javert? The guard?" The serious Javert carrying her?

"Yes, the bearded fellow. At first, I wasn't so sure about him. Didn't think he responded well to those stated above him, but he was a godsend. He carried you through all of Beaudet's estate, bringing you back to safety. He must've fought off the gypsy that attacked you."

Aimée looked at her clasped hands as they sat in her lap. "Well…it seems like I've had quite the night.

"You have indeed. Now, I'll let you sleep." Gérard stood and leaned over, pressing a curt kiss on her forehead. As he stood back up, he ran a finger across her bruised face. She fought off the urge to wince in discomfort.

"At least I never left a mark," she swore she heard him murmur as he turned to leave.

When the door creaked closed, Aimée started to cry again. She was no fool. Anton had lied about everything, and they were eating it up. A gypsy bandit? In Mayor Beaudet's own private garden? How ridiculous! Frustration bit at her more than the pain did.

In the midst of her tears, she heard three sharp knocks at the door again. Wiping her good eye free of tears as best she could and pulling the blanket up over her chest, she said, "Yes? Come in."

There was a long pause behind the door, and for a moment Aimée wondered if there had been a mistake or if her ears were playing tricks on her. But just as she was about to lay back down, the knob turned. When the door finally swung open gently, Aimée was actually happy to see who came in.

Javert stepped in and then cautiously closed the door behind him. Then, he stood awkwardly in the room, his hands behind his back. His green eyes darted all around the space, but never seeming to want to fall on her lying in bed.

In his head, Javert was rapidly starting to think of why this visit had been a mistake. He was hoping to slip in while she was asleep, see that she was alright, and then leave. But, now that the girl was awake, it was a whole different matter.

"Hello," she finally said, filling the silence. This got Javert's eyes to settle on her. Her heart skipped for a moment as she saw how much pure worry swam through them. Even though she had only known him for a short while, the guard's demeanor was completely unlike him.

Seeming to catch himself, Javert looked away and gave her a little bow, "How are you?"

"Just peachy," she said, her voice flat.

Javert looked at her blankly for a moment, "I…that's not what I meant, _mademoiselle_."

Through the pain and fear, through everything she had gone through that night, Aimée gave Javert a little smile. "I know that's not what you meant. Please, sit down."

Javert walked over to the chair, pulled it a couple of feet away from the bed, and sat down, his back as straight as ever and his feet firmly planted on the wooden floorboards. He was wearing a clean white shirt along with his navy uniform pants.

"Where's your coat?" Aimée asked, ignoring his stiff awkwardness. She was starting to accept it, knowing that was just how the man was.

"I misplaced it," Javert quickly answered, wondering why he was lying. Was it so bad to tell her that he had wrapped her up in it as he carried her to safety?"

"You misplaced your uniform jacket?" Aimée asked skeptically.

Javert just looked at her, his mouth a hard line.

She heaved a sigh, "Whatever you say, Javert." She glanced at him as best she could, looking to see how his informal name affected him. Javert stayed still as stone, not seeming to notice.

He was too busy looking at her bruised face. Javert knew he shouldn't stare, but he couldn't help himself. One of her roiling blue eyes was shut behind swollen purple lids and her bottom lip was split down the middle. Her cheek was a mottled pile of red and purple against her otherwise pale skin. The sides of her face clashed like night and day, beauty and pain.

Javert felt a surge of rage shoot from his toes and crackle behind his eyes as he sat next to her bed.

"I look hideous, don't I?" her voice was small and sheepish.

Javert snapped to attention from her voice. He shook his head. "No. You don't look hideous, you look hurt."

Aimée was surprised to hear a softness to his voice that didn't match his gaze or stiffness.

"What happened," Aimée softly demanded, looking at the corner of Javert's mouth. There was a cut there, almost hidden beneath the bristles of his beard.

Javert looked at his shoes for a moment. He realized that everyone believed Anton's story of a gypsy bandit. He was expected to do the same…expected to sweep everything under the rug and forget it happened. Javert's own job could be at risk. He knew Beaudet didn't believe the gypsy claim, but was it his place to be spreading the truth around? A guard gossiping about the mayor's own family….

Finally, pushing aside whatever reservation he had, Javert raised his eyes and started talking.

"Anton Beaudet attacked you in the garden. I believe he was trying to rape you. I heard your cry for help, so I made my way to where you were. He struck you and you fell unconscious before I could reach him. Then, after I ordered him away, the young idiot attacked me. So we fought. Anton ran back to the house, leaving you there in the grass so I picked you up and carried you back to your father."

Javert sounded like he was reciting something to an army general, his voice flat and even somewhat boring.

"Oh my God, you two fought? Are you alright?" Aimée asked, suddenly concerned for Javert.

Javert blinked, surprised. "Yes. I'm fine. Anton, however, I'm not so sure."

Aimée managed to laugh at his answer, and Javert was relieved to hear that her laughter was still strong, even though she looked so weak on the bed. "I hope you kicked his teeth in."

"Very nearly, _mademoiselle." _Javert said as he felt his own smile start to grow.

"I wish I could've seen it. I bet he ran like a frightened dog."

Javert was silent as he watched her, suddenly transfixed on her hair. Even with it unwashed and drug through the grass, it still shone with a dusty blonde glow. It had been brushed, that much he could tell, yet he could still see flecks of mud in the strands. Her laughter brought healthy color to her un-bruised cheek and her teeth were still even and white behind chapped lips.

_She is the most resilient woman I've ever met_, Javert heard himself think. Most men he knew could not bounce back after an attack this quickly. _She deserves much better than that pig of a boy._

"So…besides everything else, did you enjoy the party?" Aimée asked suddenly.

"Yes…yes I did."

"Good. You looked so out of place there, I thought I'd try and cheer you up."

Javert's mind was cruel to itself as he interpreted pity from Aimée's words. He tapped his heels against the wood to try and fill the sudden silence. It was a while before he realized that it was his turn to speak.

"I'm not used to grand parties," he said stiffly.

"What are the shipyards like?" Aimée asked, drastically changing subjects as she picked up on Javert's unease.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are they like? I used to wonder about them when I was a little girl, walking past them and hearing the chants of the workers echoing like a song over the waves."

Javert was surprised at Aimée's sudden vivid memory.

"The inmates sing to boost morale," Javert said, speaking of the prisoners like they were animals being observed, "And also to find a rhythm when pulling in ships."

She was quiet, but by the look on her face, Javert knew he was expected to keep talking. "The salt water soaks your clothes and gets into your skin, drying it out if you don't wipe yourself off at the end of the day. No matter what I eat, I always taste salt."

Aimée winkled her nose, "Even in the pastries?"

"I do not have pastries very often, so I don't know about those."

"And the ships…are they big up close? I always wondered what it would be like to set sail across the ocean, to the west. They say that there are marvelous things in that country over there. Amerilla? What's it called? I'm no good at geography."

"America," Javert snorted bitterly, "A bunch of rowdy anarchists."

"As long as they disliked the lovely Brits, I'm happy with them."

Javert smiled at Aimée, his biggest smile yet, although it was hardly noticeable to her.

"The boats are large. Bigger than anything I know. I've sailed before. It was an awful experience. The floor lurches and your stomach grows ill every single day."

"Where did you sail to?"

"Morocco. I used to be a traveling guard with a large merchant ship. Whenever the king needed spices or silk, we would set sail. "

Javert noticed that Aimée was watching him with wonder, her uninjured eye wide and shining. He cleared his throat, unused to talking this long.

"Keep going!" Aimée pleaded, "Tell me about Morocco!"

"A dirty place. The market is packed with savage people with skin as dark as the earth. They're all shouting and haggling while pickpockets snuck their hands into your purse without even making a sound. Monkeys dashed through the streets and camels would groan to each other with big baskets on their humps."

Aimée didn't know what a camel was, but it sounded fascinating. Javert's brow had furrowed as he remembered the chaos of the African market. "By the time I was back in France, I kissed the wood of the dock the second we made in to port."

The sky behind the white curtain had grown from light gray to a weak orange as the sun started to rise. Javert felt disappointed, he was supposed to be back at the shipyards within the hour. He stood.

"Where are you going?" Aimée asked, not hiding the disappointment in her voice one bit.

"I have to get ready to work."

"What? Today? But you look like you haven't had any rest! Talk to the mayor, he'll give you the day off."

"I don't want the day off, I want to work." Javert replied, returning the chair back to its corner. He wanted to watch the inmates toil away and picture Anton in their midst, the frayed rope shredding his baby-soft hands.

Aimée frowned. "Well, I wish you good luck today. Make sure you get rest."

Javert gave her a nod.

"Get well soon, _Mademoiselle_ Aimée."

She gave him one last smile and a small wave as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Once outside of Beaudet's mansion, Javert climbed into a carriage, his dress coat slung across his arm. Reaching into the pocket of the coat, he pulled out his stained handkerchief. Sighing loudly through his nose, he tucked it into the pocket of his navy blue pants as the carriage jostled him towards his meager home so he could start a long day of listening the chanting of inmates and the crash of waves.

The days were growing to be horribly long for Aimée as she rested in Beaudet's home. Sister Elliot had tried to keep her occupied with stories and small talk, but she found herself staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was like outside. Sister Mary would open the window

for her every morning when the nurses would come and wipe her down with a warm cloth. Each day, the sky and grass became even more inviting.

"Can I please leave?" Aimée found herself asking on the fourth day. "I'm not even that hurt…just a couple bruises."

Sister Elliot looked at Aimée's discolored face for a few moments. "I think we should wait a few more days. Just to be sure."

Aimée's face turned sour. She realized that she wasn't being kept there for her personal health. They were watching over her until her bruises lightened. No doubt the mayor and Gérard wanted to avoid the scandal of the townspeople seeing her with a horrible, beaten face.

Gérard had left the estate in order to care for his wife, now very pregnant and starting to feel the baby's kicks. When Melanie had heard of her daughter's attack, she desperately tried to take a carriage over to Beaudet's home, but the moment the woman stood, she bent over a washbasin, retching. Pregnancy was not being kind to her. Anna started to stay the night with her, fussing and fretting over cold compresses and the changing of sheets. Melanie's usual glow was replaced by sallowness and a fine film of sweat clung to her skin.  
"What do you mean, Mama's sick?" Aimée demanded when Beaudet came in and passed the message on to her. It was the first time he had stopped by to check in, even though it was his home she was being kept at.

"Her pregnancy has taken a bad turn,_ Mademoiselle _Lamenté," he said, wringing his hands in front of him and looking at the ground. Beaudet hated to relay bad news, and most often relied on his servants to take care of matters like these. However, when Gérard asked him to relay the news to his daughter, Mayor Beaudet felt guilty, knowing that his party and nephew was what separated the family in the first place.

Aimée struggled to get up, her muscles lazy and weak from staying in a bed for days on end. She hadn't even been permitted to walk around the house. What if one of the mayor's political guests might see her?

"I'm going home. This is enough," she said in a tone more mature than her looks portrayed. "You've kept me here long enough."

"I've kept you here? No, I thought you greatly needed the rest, hence why I haven't come to visit you. Your father told me to keep you here." Beaudet looked at Aimée then, unfazed by her wearing a simple chemise. "He no doubt wanted people to avoid seeing what my nephew did."

Aimée stopped getting up, now sitting in bed. Her eyes were questioning as she looked at Beaudet. "You mean you do not believe that shit about a gypsy?" She hadn't meant to swear, but days of brooding and stewing in anger had made her politeness run dry.

The mayor laughed. "Do you think I would be mayor of the town if I was so stupid, _Mademoiselle?_ No…I know about my nephew. I know he's a pig. But, I also know your father is less wise to Anton than I am." Beaudet stood from his seat. "It is my fear that, even after what happened, your father is too consumed by a business partnership to see the danger of an arranged marriage to my nephew."

"What are you saying? You mean he's still going to try and make me marry Anton?" An uncontrollable shiver ran down Aimée's spine and her face paled.

Beaudet nodded.

"What? How can you let him do this! He's your nephew, tell my father the truth!" Aimée was absolutely livid and her heart started to thunder against her chest.

"My hands are tied, _mademoiselle." _

"Like hell they are!" Words were spit from her mouth like fire. "You're the mayor! Can't you have someone arrest Anton?"

Beaudet looked at the girl. "My dear, if only you knew how much I would love to do that. But I can't. You're just a child. You don't know how society or politics work."

"I know enough to assume that potential rapists should be put behind bars." She pointed to her swollen eye, only now starting to fade, "He did this to me, knocked me out. And you're still going to let my father sell me to him for business."

"I have no control over your father's affairs. You are his daughter, not mine. If he wants you to marry Anton, that is his choice. I'm not going to hover and tell your father what he can and cannot do. The best I can do, _Mademoiselle_, is provide servants to you that could protect you in your home."

Aimée's eyes were dark as she glared at the portly man. She wondered how she could've ever laughed in his presence. "You are a coward, _Monsieur _Beaudet," she said then, the bold words slipping quietly from her mouth before she could control them. "You see danger and let my father lead me to it like a lamb."

The mayor hid the dull hurt in his chest well behind a mask of control. He looked at the girl, young and beautiful behind her wounds and anger, and felt a lonely creak through his body. Beaudet was now unwed, a widower before he could be blessed with children…and oh, how he had desired children. He couldn't interfere with Gérard's own family, it simply wasn't his place. Deep in his heart, he knew that it is wrong to stand aside and let Gérard hand off his daughter to a predator like his nephew, but he should not include himself with private affairs that could be considered scandalous. The public wouldn't like it. And besides…Gérard wanted Beaudet's finances, not a friendship. Why should he be concerned with marital affairs?

The mayor sniffed once, turned, and said, "Sister Elliot will help you get dressed so you can return home to your mother," before he left Aimée, still sitting and fuming on the bed.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Hey guys, thanks for reading! First authors note here I guess! Thanks for those who have followed this, I wasn't expecting to turn out as serious as it has been so far. **_

_**Just a warning, this is a short chapter…but a heavy one. **_

VII: Mother

Her father wasn't home when she walked in and untied the thick ribbon from her bonnet. Aimée set it on the worn wooden table, next to abandoned ledgers and accounts. The ink on Gérard's quill-tip was dried. Candles were snuffed and cold gray sunlight of a soon-to-arrive storm shone through the murky windows. She called through the house.

"Hello? Anyone home?" The house sat quiet.

Aimée's heart beat against her chest. Usually her mother called back to her or even Anna, the housemaid. There wasn't even the slightest creak in response. She hurried as best she could up the steps, her fingers absently gracing against her yellowed cheek, the bruise finally starting to wear away.

"Hello?" she called again, peeking her head around the upstairs bannister. "Anna? Papa? Mama?"

The house still waited in silence. Overhead, she heard a crack of thunder…but it was dull in her ears. She looked in her parent's bedroom, now only used by her father after her mother was placed in a spare room during her morning sickness. The bed was made, but the blanket slightly ruffled, like someone had slept without bothering to cover themselves in the night.

Aimée felt herself blanch, perspiration budding on her neck, back, and under her arms. This wasn't right…this wasn't right at all…Anna's little broom-cupboard of a room was deserted as well…neat, tidy and unused. Naturally, Aimée's little nest was untouched as well.

_I was only at Beaudet's for a few days…where did everybody go?_ she thought quietly as she walked to the narrow staircase that led to the attic and spare room. This was where they would retreat if one of them fell ill, separating themselves from the rest of the household in order to contain the sickness. No one had used it in a year or so…the Lamenté's had been blessed with good health. Aimée only assumed that this was where her mother was staying. Maybe they were all up there…talking. Maybe they couldn't hear her calls from down below in the house. Anna would be coming down the stairs soon to start the evening meal.

"Why are all of you hiding up here?" Aimée called, smiling from her own thoughts as she climbed the staircase. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

She stood on the last step in her common gray dress and reached for the knob. The door swung open with a slight creak, and Aimée walked into the small room, expecting to see her family.

Instead…the house echoed with the shrill sounds of her scream….

* * *

"She left?" Javert was puzzled.

The old nurse, Sister Elliot he believed her name was, folded a brown wool blanket and nodded. "Her and Mayor Beaudet had an argument of sorts, and she left. I hear her mother isn't having the best of luck with her pregnancy." Sister Elliot clucked her tongue as she began to strip the linens from the down mattress, "Poor souls…childbirth is such a harsh process."

Thunder rumbled overhead and the windows clouded over slowly into a grim grayness, even though it was only early evening. In no time at all, the patter of rain started to quietly tap at the panes. Javert continued to stand in the doorway, looking at the now stripped bed. He was picturing Aimée lying there, still weak from her attack, bruised. How had she left so soon? It had only been about three or four days, hadn't it? He wasn't sure.

"Where did she go?" he demanded, more harshly than he had intended.

Sister Elliot blinked confusedly, taken aback by his sudden change from puzzled to angry. "I haven't the slightest clue."

Javert bit the inside of his cheek and spun on his heel, leaving the room and Sister Elliot staring behind him. For reasons he could not explain, he felt agitated. Agitated, and worried. He had finally started at his post at his new promotion, overlooking the shipyard and commanding the prisoners and lower guards. He had switched out of his pale blue uniform for one of the same design, yet a deep navy color with polished buttons. Watching the scum work all day on the ropes made Javert's lip curl, made him think of the pig Anton. As time went on throughout the days, Javert had managed to work himself into a near frenzy, picturing the young man continuing to hurt women. He wanted to stop by the Mayor's estate after his shift to make sure that Anton was leaving Toulon…leaving Aimée.

But now the girl was gone, and the woman in charge of looking after her had no idea where she went.

"_Monsieur _Beaudet?" Javert called, too wound up to worry about formalities or courtesy. Luckily, he passed the large, main entrance way just as Beaudet was walking along the upstairs balcony. The fat mayor looked down and grinned. He bustled down the plush rug-covered stairs, his plump hand gliding effortlessly down the polished handrail. The mansion was still grand after the celebration decorations were torn down and stored away.

"Ah, Javert, how good to see you. The new uniform looks good! I trust you're settling in to your new post?"

"Uh…yes," Javert stumbled, suddenly remembering who he was talking to. "I was wondering if you knew where _Mademoiselle _Lamenté had gone."

The mayor's eyes turned sad as he nudged at a mud streak on a white tile with the toe of his shoe. "The young lady and I had a spat earlier today. I'm afraid she left. Only to go back home, I assumed, her mother was starting to grow sick from her pregnancy."

"You two fought?" Javert asked without reasoning.

Beaudet turned his attention to the carved etching on the far wall, a picture of a young maid, leaning over a bucket, her hair falling from her bonnet in stray wisps. "She was still upset about Anton."

Javert quickly put two and two together. "Gérard can't possibly still be thinking about engaging the two." His gray-green eyes flashed in stormy anger.

"The man loves his business."

"_Monsieur, _you're a good man…you won't tell him the truth of what happened?" Javert couldn't understand why the man had told him the story of his nephew the night of the party, yet withheld the information from the victim's own father.

Beaudet's eyes were pleading as he looked at his promoted guard. "It's not my place to interfere with Gérard's plans for Aimée, she is his daughter, not mine."

_She was attacked by your pig of a nephew. You're letting him roam the streets then, aren't you, you lazy cow,_ Javert's mind was snarling words in his head faster than he could control them.

"I see," he instead said, allowing himself to give the mayor a curt nod. "I'll be taking my leave now."

"Javert…check in on her, will you? Stop by the home and see if she's alright. I want to make sure that she got home safely, especially in this oncoming storm. I don't trust the weather one bit."

Javert nodded. "I'll see to it."

Beaudet sent a carriage for him…but he ignored it and continued to walk towards the town.

* * *

There was blood soaked through the mattress. Blood on the sheets and blood on the floor. It had dried in the air, leaving a coppery taste and smell, and turned brown against the fabric. Wash bins sat abandoned, their water cloudy red with rags lying in the porcelain, and a chair sat overturned on the wood floor. Boot prints had left smears of coppery red on the floorboards.

In the corner, the tangy, sickly scent of Aimée's vomit mingled with the stench of stale blood. She was bent over, nearly in half, her hand pressed against her stomach and her other hand braced against the wall, trying to desperately support her. When her stomach was empty, and her retches turned into dry heaves, she struggled to regain her breath. Thunder cracked overhead and the window flashed by with lightning. Holding her sleeved wrist up to cover her nose and mouth, Aimée forced herself to look around the attic room. Lying on the floor next to the corner of the ruined mattress sat a glass vial with a red cross penned on the label. The doctor.

Quickly as her trembling legs could carry her, Aimée sprinted down the stairs and burst through the door. By now, God had opened the sky and the streets were slick and streaming with muddy water. Her shoes were ruined after two steps and the hem of her dress after four. Frightened and confused tears were streaming down her face and she spat as she ran, desperately trying to get the stale taste of her sick out of her mouth.

"_Mademoiselle, _wait! _Mademoiselle _Lamenté, stop!" the voice that cut through the rain was familiar, but not enough to make her stop. Gruff and strong, like the roiling ocean. It didn't matter…she was deaf as she ran. The words merely became muddled in the wet, slopping sounds of her footsteps, the rush of blood in her ears, and the booming thunder. She was gone through an alleyway in an instant, trying to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

When she finally reached the stucco and wood building with the red cross on the door, she was exhausted and soaked. Heaving breath back into her lungs, she pushed open the door and frantically searched for her mother and father.

The hospital was one large room lined with white beds, the windows covered in white curtains, and the walls painted white. The upper level were rooms for the richly sick, and above that rooms for the Sisters and nurses. Not seeing anyone she recognized in the main infirmary, Aimée stumbled her way upstairs.

A nurse found her at the top of the stairwell, covered in mud and rain. "Lamenté… I'm looking for Melanie Lamenté," she gasped, barely able to speak without her lungs threatening collapse.

The nurse's eyes turned sad and she pointed down a cramped hall, "First door on the right, child."

Aimée was not graceful or controlled as she burst through the door. "Father? Mother?"

Gérard Lamenté was sitting in a chair next to a bed. He looked up to Aimée, his eyes dull with heavy, animalistic hurt and pain, red-rimmed and ugly. Above the bed hung a cross, the watchful face of crucified Jesus looking down on Aimée's small family. Gérard was clutching a pale, slender hand, which led to a strong wrist and a soft forearm. The forearm disappeared under a white linen sheet. Aimée clutched a hand to her face as her eyes fell on her mother's face covered by the linens. She shook her head violently. Gérard did not rise…he just continued to stare at his daughter as he clutched his dead wife's lifeless hand.

Aimée's world stopped. She felt the pain start low in her feet, rise to her knees, and spread through her chest. She wretched again against her mouth, but she had no more left in her stomach. Grief tore at her eyes and ears, sounding like screaming nails against a piece of slate and wracking her brain with painful stabs of light. She couldn't bring herself to approach the bed. Couldn't bring herself to reach out and touch the fabric that covered her mother's beautiful face and chestnut hair. Aimée wanted to see her freckles…see the slight gap between her rose lips when she smiled.

Without warning, the floor lurched to her right and she had to steady herself against the wall.

"Why didn't you tell me…" she finally choked out, her voice just a painful ghost of a whisper to be heard through the cutting silence.

Gérard opened his mouth, but he didn't realize no sound came out. "…I had…no time," he finally said, his voice sounding as rough as the sea."

"Where's her baby? Where's my brother?" she was sure it was a boy…could feel it in her heart and head.

Gérard merely looked at his daughter as God laughed cruelly in the form of thunder from above. For the first time, he noticed how much she looked like his Melanie, save for the blonde hair and lack of freckles. His wife's eyes stared back at him through his daughter's face.

"The little one did not live…Aimée…"

Aimée's mouth turned harshly downwards as she clenched her jaw until it threatened to shatter. The world lurched again and she had to turn away from her father to steady herself with both hands against the wall. Sobs wracked her body then…violent, thrashing things that ripped apart at her throat and lungs. Pressing her forehead against the rough stucco wall, she let out a wail that brought three nurses rushing into the room. They grabbed at her arms, trying to shush her and calm her down, but she was too far gone in pain and sorrow to realize what was happening. She pictured death around her, poking her and prodding her with skeletal fingers the color of ivory.

"NO!" Aimée screamed, lashing out and accidentally striking a middle-aged nurse across the chest, "Get away!"

"Aimée, stop it!" Gérard said, suddenly coming out of his stupor. "Aimée, come here!"

But as he approached, she saw him angry, about to strike her with the back of his hand and a harsh word. She remembered then how the flowers fell from her hand that day her father had struck her in the market.

She whirled like a crazed woman and bolted out the door, dazed and confused by grief and pain. Down the steps she went and out the hospital door. The rain continued to thunder down on her, mixing with her tears and adding to the misery that was starting to drown her heart.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII: Relief Follows Need

She was soaked through…wet and cold and sobbing. Her throat was raw, her lungs ached, and her eyes burned. The cold, slick stone of the shipyard outcrop supported her feet, yet there was only one wall to her left that she could use to steady herself. Aimée's hand was stiff as it pressed against the wet stone, her palm flat against the slime. Out in front of her, several massive ships groaned in their keeps, the prisoners inside for their rest. Sails became saturated and heavy with rainwater and Aimée could see the canvas start to bow from the weight. Salt from the sea clung to her skin, and she could already start to feel her lips start to chap. The air around the girl had stilled, no breeze, even near the bay where she stood, and the rain dropped quickly and heavily onto her head straightaway. Thunder still roared and grumbled overhead, and by this time it was black as pitch outside, the moon hidden by rain-laden clouds.

Aimée had screamed the last of her curses to the ocean. Her voice had died away long ago, and now she had no desire to speak. Bruises were probably starting to form on her arms, no doubt caused by her own hands as they clutched her biceps. Her body was trying to find comfort in itself. As she sat alone, the rain finally started to lighten, turning from a monsoon to a soft patter.

A lantern cut through the pouring night, a small, bobbing light through falling ocean spray and raindrops. She pressed herself as much as she could against the slimy stone, worrying about her already weak knees in case she needed to run. Even in her crippling grief, she remembered what her mother had said about the shipyards, especially a shipyard at night….

"Men do not care about you, Angel…out by the ocean, women are prizes to be mounted and sold." Rapists, thieves, and madmen.

Footsteps mingled with the patter of fat raindrops against the stone walkway, heavy boots that clunked with every step. The rain started to lessen more, turning from teardrops to a narrower mist.

The shadow that held the lantern was very straight, broad shoulders and stiff spine. As her eyes adjusted to the lantern's approaching glow, she saw a stubble covered jaw, straight nose, and pale green eyes.

Javert looked at her for ages. Minutes passed in silence around the two of them, his jaw set in a hard line as he noticed how soaked through she was…how her eye still looked swollen and sickly yellow as the bruise started to break. She looked smaller than he remembered…dimmer, like she was fading away before his very eyes. Aimée's stormy blue eyes were rimmed with red and her nose was starting to grow rosy from cold and grief. Javert took a small, cautious step forward, holding the lantern at arm's reach to try and see the girl through the rain.

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté?" His voice was quiet, cautious. Javert feared that if he came any closer, she would bolt.

Aimée looked at him through the raindrops, her body pressed close to the stone wall. He was wearing a thick coat on over his uniform, the raindrops rolling off the thick wool. The man opened up the front of his coat and pulled out a folded blanket. He set down the lantern and approached her, one hand clutching the blanket and the other raised cautiously.

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté, I'm going to give you this. You need to get warm."

Blinking, she approached him like she was a small child, her eyes wide and shoulders shaking. The hand that took the blanket was pale. Javert couldn't help but stare at her fingers, long and elegant as they grasped the fabric.

"How long have I been out here?" Aimée asked then, wrapping the cloth around her.

Javert swallowed as he picked up the lantern off the stone. "It's well past midnight, _mademoiselle_."

"Where's my father?"

At first, he didn't want to answer her. He cast his eyes downwards, and bowed his head. "He is at the funeral home, _Mademoiselle _Lamenté."

She sniffed and felt a lump form in her throat, but she was out of tears, too exhausted to sob once more. "The baby's dead."

Javert nodded. He wanted to say something, to comfort her, make her safe, but he was at a loss. He did not know how to do any of those things, barely even knew how to speak to someone naturally, free of formalities. However, as he looked at her, broken and spat on by God, his heart stirred and a vicious wave of protectiveness flooded him. Javert's green eyes zeroed in on Aimée, like she was a tiny dove in a nest of snakes. He needed to reach out to her.

Instead, his arm was stiff as it wrapped around her shoulders. To his surprise, she huddled closer against his side, bringing her blanket-covered hands up to her mouth. He saw weak tears start to roll from her eyes and wondered how long the child had cried.

"Come…we need to get you dry," Javert murmured, steering her towards the stairs that lead up to the shipyard wall.

Aimée leaned into Javert's side, craving both the warmth and stability. She felt like she couldn't walk by herself, not with how much she was shaking. Her feet were shuffling and the going was slow…one stair at a time. The rain slicked off the coarse blanket and she finally felt dry, save for her tangled mess of hair.

If under any other circumstances, she would've blushed at being held so close by a man. Javert's side was strong, and his arm wrapped around her shoulder protectively. She was turned into him, almost pressing her head against his chest, and walking was almost awkward, but they managed to pick their way underneath the dark, raining sky. Javert looked down at her and she felt the stubble from his chin brush against the top of her head.

"I'm bringing you back to your house, _mademoiselle._" Javert felt the need to explain himself.

At the mention of her home, Aimée shook her head violently and pushed herself away from him. "I'm not going home!" she found herself screaming at him. Her fists desperately clutched at the blanket around her shoulders. Images of the blood that slicked the floor flashed through her head and behind her eyes. "I'm not going to that house…not now."

Javert was at a loss. "I…I understand," he stumbled for the words, "Shall I bring you to Beaudet's?" he assumed that the mayor was a family friend.

She shook her head, "The Beaudets are pigs. I don't want to go back there."

Silence flowed around them as they stood apart. "I'm sorry, _mademoiselle…_do you have anywhere else to go?" Awkwardness started to blossom and thrive in the air around the two. Javert realized that he was alone with a young woman at night. This was not the formal way that kept him comfortable.

To his despair, she shook her head as an answer to his question.

Javert bit the inside of his cheek, such was his habit. He thought as he regarded her, bundled up in the coarse blanket he had grabbed from his own closet. She was cold, hurt, and filled to the brim with more sorrow and pain than most people were cursed with after an entire lifetime. Attacked and then makes her way home to find horror and death. He thought of the smiling girl that had thrust flowers into his face that first day in the market.

"Can…can I stay at your home?" Aimée asked meekly, bringing her hands to her face again as her eyes flitted to the ground. She would've flushed from embarrassment after she asked the question, but the color had left her face.

Javert swallowed his shock. His eyes quickly left her face as they darted about in the night, trying to find something to look at as he struggled to find the answer.

"You can go and get Anna," Aimée quickly said, "She went back to the house…she can take care of me. I just can't stand to go home or to Beaudet's. I'm sure I can stay at the church if it's too much trouble." She was backtracking quickly, embarrassed that she had suggested a ridiculous thing. Staying at the now prison overseer's house.

Javert knew that there were no beds in the church save for the Sisters' quarters. Aimée would no doubt be sleeping on a wooden pew under God's cold scrutiny. The inn notoriously housed degenerates and there seemed to be no other option. But the inappropriateness of it all unnerved him, made him grow uncomfortable. A woman in Javert's home? The home of a bachelor that lived alone among dust and bareness? Yet, his home had a fireplace which provided warmth, a kitchen that provided food, and a strong door that provided safety.

"Come…you can stay," he finally said formally, nodding towards the center of town. Aimée, newly snapped out of her trance of exhaustion, stood near him again as they walked, yet he kept his arm at his side.

When the odd coupling made it to his house, the rain finally stopped and the thunder pitifully rumbled in the far distance, barely reminding them of its presence. He reached into the pocket of his coarse outer coat and pulled out a bare brass key. Once the door was unlocked, he walked in before Aimée and picked up the matches that he kept by the doorway. He lit the lamps of the main hallway and walked towards the main sitting area and started to pile wood and kindling for a fire in the stone fireplace. Once the kindling took, he pulled the armchair over close to the hearth and gestured to it when he stood and saw Aimée standing in the doorway.

"You need to get warm," he instructed as she padded over with tired little steps and curled up in the chair. She looked so small to him under the shapeless blanket, only her head sticking from the cloth bundle. "I'm going to retrieve your housemaid."

He turned on his heel and left then, ducking back out into the damp air, leaving the girl with his fireplace. By this time, it was well past two in the morning and Javert was expected to be at the shipyards once dawn broke over France, but at this time he just wanted to make sure that Aimée was safe and sound in a dry, warm bed. Javert thought as he walked. Thought about when he saw her sprint past him as he was heading over to her house after leaving Beaudet's mansion. Javert had called out to her, his voice loud and strong, yet she completely ignored him as she continued to sprint. He actually skipped a step as he contemplated going after her, but thought better of it. What if someone in the town had seen him sprinting after the girl? Instead, he walked to her house in order to see if Gérard Lamenté was home. Javert would never admit that he actually went to the house to make sure that her father had not struck her. He was beginning to feel protective over the girl, an old watch dog. He shook the ridiculous thought from his head. He was merely making sure that the citizens of the city were safe. A man hoping to live in the law can't let the defenseless struggle with their own devices if they need help.

When he approached Aimée's home after she had gone, he was unnerved to see the door swinging on its hinge, wide open to the world. Completely against his normal character, Javert stepped inside, only to find the house deserted.

"_Monsieur _Lamenté? _Madame_ Lamenté?" he called, his voice a little gravelly from yelling at Aimée moments before. An unknown force pulled him up the narrow staircase. Javert knew that it was wrong of him to be walking through a home, uninvited, yet his feet continued to move. He walked down a hall on the second story, found that all the rooms had been emptied, and went down the other side of the home. There, he found a little room, stuffed to the brim with pictures, ribbons, and other coveted little treasures. With a small smile of knowing, Javert pictured a little Aimée pinning useless knickknacks to her walls. The smile quickly left as he turned back into the hallway.

The man did not hesitate as he discovered another narrow stairway that lead to the attic. He stood in the doorway for two solid minutes as he looked at the blood, his face as hard and even as stone. Javert was no stranger to tragedy and injury; he had seen inmates get crushed to death before his very eyes. Seen men beat each other with the chains that connected them, hang themselves from the bars of their cells. Yet this…this dried battleground of blood and mess even made him feel sick and unnerved. Javert quickly left the house.

Javert walked to the hospital too slowly. He had missed Aimée again. Her father was a zombie, catatonic to even his questions. The nurse was the one that told him the girl had fled the hospital only moments before he arrived. Ever since then, he had been scouring the town, trying to find her. As the rain grew stronger, so did his worry.

With an abrupt stop to his recollections, Javert found himself standing in front of the Lamenté's home once again. The door was closed and through the windows, he could see the dim glow of candlelight. His knocks were solid against the wood.

The woman who entered was young, red-haired and green-eyed from the Irish blood that no doubt flowed through her veins. How she ended up in France was a mystery in itself, no doubt her family was trying to escape poverty.

"_Mademoiselle _Anna?" he asked, giving her a little formal bow.

She nodded, "_Oui."_

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté won't be able to return to this home tonight, but I came to request your help with her. She is back in my home. There was no other place for her to stay. I have guest rooms for you and the _mademoiselle._"

Anna nodded quickly, the nod of unquestioning obedience from years of being a house servant. She disappeared upstairs for a quick moment and returned with a bundle of cloth Javert could only assume was dry clothing. "Where is Master Gérard?" she asked as she retrieved a simple cloak from a small broom closet and shut the door, turning a small brass key to set a lock.

"He left the hospital and is at the funeral home."

"Melanie Lamenté was a good woman…kind," Anna said, her face an even slate, even in sadness.

Javert stayed quiet, but walked quickly.

By the time they made it back, Javert instructed Anna to go to the kitchen and warm some soup that he had left over from the day before. There was bread in the cupboard and the fire was easy to start in the kitchen hearth. When he ventured into the living room, the fire had reduced down to a few small flickering flames with glowing embers. Aimée was curled up where he had left her, her head lolled and resting on the side of the armchair. Her tired eyes were closed, one yellowed from Anton's fist, the other dark from exhaustion. Javert was swept with relief as he watched her sleep, and he even dared let the corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile. He gently laid two more logs on the fire, the heat feeling good on his rough hands. He brought over another chair and sat on the other side of the fireplace, a courteous six feet from the sleeping Aimée. Once seated, Javert struggled to undo the high clasp of his uniform and the stiff collar finally released its uncomfortable grip on his neck. Javert's sigh was long and weary.

The flickering of the flames cast an orange glow on Aimée's face, and her bruises were almost unnoticeable.

_Such a strong child_… Javert thought as he looked her over, his head leaning back against the chair and tilted slightly to the side as he watched her sleep in subtle fascination. _No, not a child after this…a woman. A strong woman in the cruel face of harsh fate. _He decided he liked the way that sounded and made a mental note to write it down if he managed to remember. Her hair was matted, her eyes puffed, and her dress filthy from the muddy city streets. Aimée twitched in her sleep and her head slumped to the other side of the chair, her mouth hanging open as she gave a soft snore. Javert closed his own eyes as he smiled fully, releasing his control and formalness in pure relief. She was safe, even if she was staying in his own dusty home.

Cracking his eyes open again, he pulled out the handkerchief from his coat pocket. Her strawberry stains were still streaked across the white linen. Javert held it in his hand, remembering how happy she looked as she awkwardly spun with Mayor Beaudet as they danced at his birthday celebration. Now she looked so little…so frail, almost as if she had never once smiled and joy was a stranger to her. She must not have been eating at Beaudet's, she looked thinner than Javert remembered, her cheekbones highly pronounced and her neck wiry as it disappeared underneath the lumpy blanket.

A log popped in the fire and Javert turned his weary eyes to the flickering flame. His eyes were heavily lidded, half closed, and his jaw started to go slack. Finally giving in to exhaustion, he let his head fall forward and released a small snore, his stained handkerchief still clutched in his fist.

Anna brought a tray of soup and bread into the living room only to find Aimée and the man asleep facing the fire. She didn't know exactly who the man was, but he seemed kind, albeit a little stiff and stern, his hard jaw covered in beard and his eyebrows heavy against his forehead. Right now, he looked less intimidating, his mouth hanging open slightly and his chin touching his chest as he slept. Aimée was curled up tightly in a ball, her head and toes sticking out from underneath a heavy blanket.

* * *

Anna made her way over to her master's daughter. Setting the tray down on a small table that sat next to the fireplace, the servant gently shook Aimée's shoulder. She cracked her eyes open and looked up to try and see who had woken her.

"Oh, Anna…I'm so glad to see you," Aimée murmured sleepily, a smile caressing her chapped lips. The unforgiving sea salt had dried her skin.

"Here, eat some soup, Miss," Anna said, retrieving the bowl and bringing a spoonful of broth to Aimée's mouth. The servant girl smiled as Aimée started to eat. "I was very worried about you," Anna said as she continued to feed her young friend, "I…cleaned upstairs and waited for your arrival, but you never came back."

Aimée was quiet as she ate more soup, not even wanting to think about what sat upstairs in the attic.

"This man showed up," Anna continued, looking over her shoulder to the sleeping Javert, "Told me he had you here, in this bare house. So I came with him to take care of you. Why are you here, miss?"

"I would rather die than go back to that house right now," Aimée spat with sudden grief driven anger. "Did Father ever find you to ask about me?"

"No, _mademoiselle, _he never arrived back to the house."

That time, the soup tasted bitter as Aimée swallowed. "I'm not hungry anymore, Anna. Thank you. Do you think we could find a bed?"

"There has to be one in here somewhere," Anna replied, helping Aimée up and leading her through the living room, past the sleeping Javert. Aimée watched him as she walked by, amazed to see how gentle his features looked as he slept. She wanted to watch him for longer, but Anna quickly led her out into a hall. Anna retrieved a small bundle of clothes from the hallway table.

"Maybe here?" she asked, opening the first door they stumbled across. It was a tiny broom closet. "Alright…not there."

They mistakenly opened up the door to a study, another closet, and a pantry before they found an unused bedroom. It housed a large bed and Anna left Aimée standing in the doorway to ready the sheets and blanket. Thankfully, there was no dust on the bed and linens were clean. Next, Anna went and checked the small wardrobe that sat in the corner. It was empty, so that meant that this was indeed a guest room. She beckoned for Aimée to come closer.

"Let's get you into some dry clothes, Miss Aimée," the servant suggested, taking the blanket from Aimée's clutched hands. At first, she found herself not wanting to let go, but finally released the cloth after she came to her senses. The gray day dress she wore was utterly ruined. Mud caked up the skirt nearly to her knees and ran soaked through. The laces were challenging to undo when damp. Anna finally removed the dress so Aimée was standing in her chemise and petticoat. Anna turned her back politely as Aimée stripped the rest of the way and put on the clean, dry chemise.

"Come, miss, come lay down," Anna said softly when the girl finished changing. The girl sat and Anna ran her fingers through her dirty hair, trying her best to get rid of the largest snarls. In the morning, she'd have to run back to the house to retrieve a hairbrush and a day dress for Aimée to wear.

"You don't have to call me 'Miss' all the time ,you know," Aimée said as she got under the covers. "We're friends…or, at least, I think we are."

Anna gave her a kind smile. In times like these, she would gladly call the resilient child her friend. "Yes Aimée, we are friends." Then, she got up to leave to try and find a different room so she could get some rest as well.

"Anna? Could you stay?" Aimée asked, sitting up from the mattress. "After my mother…after today, I don't want to be alone. I need a friend right now…."

Anna's heart melted for the girl, she thought of what it might feel like to be blessed with a little sister. "Yes…if you don't mind it, I will stay."

Aimée shimmied over to the other side of the bed and lay on her back as Anna climbed in next to her. They both stared at the ceiling.

"Are you religious, Anna?" Aimée asked after a moment of silence.

"I believe there is a God, yes, as for what kind of god, I don't know."

Aimée scrunched up her face as she tried to process her friend's answer. "When I was staying in Beaudet's house, Sister Elliot kept telling me stories of God and Jesus. How he healed the blind, made the poor rich…even raised the dead."

"Miracles such as those are few and far apart, _mademoiselle,_" Anna gave the formality out of habit.

"I know…but I wish they were common. Do you think there's a heaven?"

"I do."

"Do you think my mother's up there? And my baby brother? I hope he was at least blessed in death so he can sit by God."

"I don't believe that babies have to be blessed in order to go to heaven. They haven't had the chance to commit any evils. As for your mother, Aimée, there is no one in this world more deserving of endless paradise than Melanie Lamenté."

At these words, both servant and daughter shed tears of remembrance until they fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note: So, hello all! This one's just more of a filler chapter, annoying but necessary as we move along with our story! Hope you all continue to enjoy!**_

IX: Notes

Javert startled himself awake with a strong snore. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, running a hand over his face. Looking around, he noticed that the window was the pale indigo of dawn. Javert groaned and turned away from the window, his neck stiff and sore. He found himself sitting in his stiff armchair facing the fireplace, now only smoky embers barely glowing in the hearth. He scratched his chin and looked to the other chair, only to find it empty. His eyes widened in small worry as he rose from his seat and walked into the hall. The door to one of Javert's guest rooms was slightly open and he cautiously stuck his head inside. There on the bed, Aimée slept heavily, curled up on her side and facing the wall, her blonde hair a wild, sprawled mess against the pillows. Next to her slept her servant girl, Anna, also curled up on her side and her back pressing against Aimée's.

A relived sigh escaped his lips as he retreated back into the hall and shut the door quietly. He placed his forehead on the worn wood and murmured a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord above.

"Thank you for keeping her safe. Thank you for letting me find her before someone else did. Thank you for letting her sleep," Javert's voice was thick from exhaustion, but there was no more time for him to sleep. His footsteps were heavy and slow as he climbed the stairs in order to get to his personal bedroom.

Unlike the rest of his bare house, Javert's room resembled something that actually held life. His bed was covered with thick navy linens and the walls were adorned with paintings and plaques. At the foot of his bed sat a large mahogany chest with brass clasps. Inside, he kept as many things as he could that held meaning, things from his childhood and more recent items. However…he had not opened it for a very long time, so it sat quietly in his room, content to hold his treasures. A large wardrobe took up most of the left wall, and a fireplace sat in front of his bed and chest, the hearth a cream colored marble laced with spindly black streaks. A bookshelf sat next to the window and lamps reached out from all four walls in order to keep the space well lit. Javert stared at a painting of a lion fighting a bull as he removed his uniform coat. The lion's teeth were bared in a snarl against the bull's curved horn and the veins in the bull's neck bulged out from rage and adrenaline. Javert's eyes met with the lion's as he stripped off his white undershirt.

Javert was not an unfit man. Strong muscles clung to his bones, none of them soft or undefined. The man's chest was covered in a light dusting of dark hair and his biceps rose like gentle hills from his arms. He walked to the wash basin and poured the leftover water from the pitcher. Dipping the washcloth into the water, Javert wiped his face, brought the cloth over his chest and shoulders, and cleaned underneath his arms. The water was cold, but he found it helpful to stay awake. With thick fingers, he rubbed his eyes and then ran his palms over his cheeks. Drying off with a hand towel, he walked back to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh shirt. He figured he could pass another day in his navy pants. The hem had stayed clear from the mud thanks to his boots.

Once dressed in a clean shirt, Javert grabbed his outer jacket and quietly descended his stairs, each creak sounding like a gunshot in the early morning silence. He contemplated going to the kitchen to eat some breakfast, but he didn't want to risk making noise. Aimée needed as much sleep as possible. Instead, he grabbed some spare coins from a dish that sat on the table in the entryway so he could stop at an early bakery before he entered the shipyards. Slipping the money into his pocket, he surveyed the house once more, barely breathing in order to size up the silence. When he was content that the two women were still sleeping, he slipped out into the early morning haze before the birds even chirped their songs.

* * *

When Aimée rose, she was in the bed alone. The curtains were drawn and only a thin sliver of sunlight reached into the room. She had no idea what time it was or where she was at first. Then, in a rush of violent, thrashing images, the memories came back. Blood on the floor…white hospital linens, pouring rain, and the thunder that sounded like the cruel laughter of God himself. She hugged herself tightly, mentally building stones against the pain and grief. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she permitted a few to trickle down her cheeks. She struggled to blink them away. Getting up, she padded over to the window and grasped the curtains in her hands. The late morning light violently shot into her eyes and the yellowness of the sun stung. Holding up a hand to her face, Aimée squinted out the window, waiting as her oceanic eyes adjusted.

Her dark memories started to fade as Aimée looked out into the sunlight, even though they were as fresh as a new cut. She recollected on how she got to the house. Javert had found her at the docks, pulling a blanket in his hand and a lantern to chase away the darkness. The quiet man had been growing more and more familiar to her, seeming to pop up when she least expected it.

_Or when I desperately need it…_Aimée thought, bringing her thumb to her mouth and biting at her nail. From Javert's guest bedroom window, Aimée had a fair view of the square. People were bustling about, to and fro, oblivious to her blue eyes as they darted from person to person. Dust sparkled though the light, looking like snow on a summer day, and carts rolled through the still tacky mud of the Toulon backstreets.

As she turned away from the window, she caught sight of herself in the reflective surface of a grungy mirror. Aimée's hair was tangled, a dusty blonde rat's nest, and her eye was finally fully open, the swelling gone and her normal coloration returning. The salt air had greedily sucked the hydration from her lips, leaving them chapped and split. Her face looked skinnier than she remembered, her cheekbones protruding from under her skin. Disgusted with how she looked, Aimée turned and left the room. Down the hall, meat sizzled in a cast iron pan. Fat crackled and popped as a meal cooked over the fire in the kitchen. Aimée followed the noise, her stomach twisting and growling in its hunger.

"Good afternoon, miss," Anna beckoned as Aimée shuffled her way into Javert's kitchen. The maid had already gotten up, dressed, and groomed. Anna had returned to the Lamenté's home earlier that morning to fetch a few things. A bundle of ham, bread, and cheese sat in a basket on the counter next to the cook fire. Next to that was another cloth bag.

"Afternoon?" Aimée asked.

"Yes, you've slept well past the morning. I fetched you a hairbrush, soap, and a day dress from your home," Anna said as she prodded two thick slabs of ham as they sizzled and popped in the pan with a wooden spoon. The smell was not merciful as it flowed through Aimée's nose and ripped at her stomach. The little bowl of soup that she had eaten the night before did nothing to keep her full.

"I left warm water in the pitcher only moments ago, it should still be the right temperature," Anna continued as she unbundled the loaf of bread. "You can clean up and get dressed. Then we can eat."

Aimée gathered up the bag in her arms and left the kitchen obediently. Back in the guest room, she found the porcelain wash bin in the corner, a folded cloth rag draped against the side. She picked up the pitcher, white porcelain ordained with delicate blue flowers, and poured the steaming water into the bowl. Anna left two towels on the floor next to the table that held the wash bin. Aimée desperately craved a large wash tub, but this simple wipe down would have to do.

Digging through the bag, she easily found the bar of soap and her hairbrush. She tried to drag it though her hair when dry, but the bristles only got caught in the tangles. Aimée huffed back a frustrated sigh and craned her neck to the side, trying to get as much of her hair in the basin as possible. She rubbed her hands over the soap so lather spread through her fingers and dripped down her wrist. With a determined face, Aimée then started to scrub her hair as best as she could. When she was finished, Anna had left her a large towel. Wrapping her hair up inside it, Aimée washed her face, scrubbing away the sea salt and tears. After she finished with her face, she ventured over to the window and closed the curtains. Then she closed the door. In her new privacy, she stripped out of her chemise and cleaned her chest, stomach, arms, and legs. Patting herself dry with the second towel, she got dressed in a fresh undergarment, petticoat, and finally managed to lace herself into a simple green dress.

Once dressed, Aimée removed her hair from the towel and attacked her hair with her brush without mercy. She cried out when the bristles would unforgivably tug at her roots, yet she brushed with as much fervor as she could muster. Finally, after a decade of curses, grunts, and growls, the teeth of her brush glided through her golden hair smoothly. Hiding back a haughty smile of small success, Aimée headed back to the kitchen.

When she entered again, two plates were set on a small kitchen table, piled with ham, bread, and cheese. Anna was fetching a pitcher of drinking water from the pump in the corner of the room, the metal handle creaking as the young maid heaved it up and down. Aimée was seated and already starting to devour her meal with her eyes.

"You can start to eat, miss," Anna said as she dug into a cupboard, trying to find out where the man who owned the house hid his drinking glasses.

"I thought I told you to call me Aimée?" Aimée replied as she waited patiently for Anna to sit down with her.

Once the maid found two carved wooden glasses, she poured the water and sat down across the simple table, her eyes glancing over Aimée's face. She seemed pleased with the girl's simple sponge bath.

"You did tell me. Forgive me, but it will be a hard habit to break," Anna gave her a small nod along with a faint smile. "Now, let us pray so we can eat."

"I don't feel like praying," Aimée said, picking up her fork and starting to cut at her breakfast, her face solemn. Anna sighed as she looked at the girl, but nodded and started to eat as well. The breakfast, no matter how simple it was, was a welcome blessing to Aimée. Her stomach gladly received the warm food and she wolfed it down like a starving street urchin. Grease shone on her chin and she reached for the cloth napkin that Anna had provided for her.

"Aimée, I know you don't want to hear this, but we're going to have to go back to the house today," Anna was cautious as she said the words, her fork hovering over her plate and her eyes studying the blonde girl across from her.

Aimée sniffed as she continued to eat, not looking up. "I don't want to go back."

"I know, miss, but we have to. Your father will most likely be there…and you must honor your mother at her funeral."

"Father didn't even come looking for me after I left the hospital, Anna," Aimée said, her voice bitter.

Anna bit her lip and her eyes casted downwards. "He wasn't in his right mind, Aimée."

Aimée sniffed and finished eating in silence. "What about Javert? We're just going to leave?" she asked, picking up her plate and putting it in the washbasin.

"We can leave a note," Anna suggested, "His study is right down the hall, I'm sure you can find some ink and paper. And we can leave him the rest of this ham as a thank you. The man hasn't got much to eat in here."

Aimée pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "Alright," she finally agreed, "You wash up, and I'll make the bed and write a note."

Already pumping water into the washbasin, Anna nodded. She began to scrub when Aimée left the kitchen and padded down the hall. The floorboards were dusty, she noticed, and the walls had little color. Still, it was not a bad house to be living in. People of France have dwelled in much less than this. She pictured Javert walking down the halls, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture perfect, even in the privacy of his home. In her mind's eye, he would sniff or adjust a lamp on the wall, or sit in front of the hearth with a book. Aimée did a small double take as she walked past the living room. She could've sworn she had seen him sleeping in the chair, his head lulled forward as he snored softly as he had the night before.

As she searched for the study, Aimée allowed herself a small smile in his home.

She found herself biting her lip as she wandered into a room that had a large oak desk with an inkwell, papers, and a few books and ledgers sprawled across the top. A dusty four-paned window sat behind the wooden chair of the desk. Murky sunlight cut through the glass and spread itself lazily over the papers. Ruffling around with delicate fingers, she searched for a spare bit of parchment. As she shuffled the papers, a small yellow shape flitted to the floor and sat unnoticed by her foot. Aimée tried not to think about the act that she was doing, searching the office of a man she hardly knew. Just as discomfort started to float over her as she rummaged through Javert's things, she spotted an old fountain pen and spare piece of parchment.

"Finally," she sighed as she dipped the tip in the inkwell and started to write.

When she was finished, she blew on the words lightly to try and dry the wet shine of the ink and headed back to the spare bedroom. The sheets and blanket were ruffled, so she quickly made up the bed, smoothing out the linens. She opened the window, made sure no one was standing in the street below, and poured out the water from the basin. Aimée wanted to keep busy…subconsciously trying to find things to keep her mind off of the tragedy that had struck only the day before.

Satisfied that the room was made up nicely, she turned and headed back to the kitchen where Anna was finished with the dishes. The note was folded, the ink finally dry, and Aimée placed it on the end of the kitchen table. Anna gathered up the spare bread and cheese and bundled it all together into her basket.

"Shall we go, _mademoiselle?" _Anna asked, slipping back into her formality.

Aimée gave a sad nod. She was not ready to face the outside world, face the horror that she had left on the other side of the Javert's door after he led her inside his home. She hoped he would not be offended from their leave. After all, she left a note…a very kind note, it seemed to her.

The street was loud and bustling as they closed the door behind them.

* * *

Javert wet his lips with his tongue as the salt spray stung against his face. He immediately regretted doing so as his mouth filled with salt, parching his throat. He looked out over the ocean, musing of how punishing of a trick it was for God to make that much water undrinkable.

_God has been cruel recently_, Javert thought bitterly as he paced the top level of the shipyards, listening to the chants of the prisoners and the groan of the incoming ship. The mast of the great vessel was crooked and the sails torn. It had tried to sail through the storm that had hit the night before. No doubt the rain and wind had been ten times more unforgiving on the open ocean.

Javert looked down at the port with stony green eyes. The thick ropes were covered with scummy algae and crusted from the saltwater. He knew just how painful it was to pull on those thick hemp coils with bare hands. New prisoners without the protective callouses had their hands shredded within the hour. On a calm day, you could see the streaks of red in the water. However, even with this knowledge, Officer Javert had no pity for them.

He wondered about Aimée Lamenté as he stood atop the stone wall, the very same wall that he had found the girl curled up and frightened in the rain. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked towards the side barrier where he had found her, huddled and soaked to the bone. He shook the thought from his head and tried to replace it with the picture of her curled up and safe in front of his hearth.

The chanting below him stopped and a high whistle rang out. These prisoners were ready to be changed with a new batch to work. He remembered the slip of paper he held in his pocket and quickly made his way down the slick stone steps. Javert prayed that his footing was sure.

Javert had parole business to see to on this day. His lip curled as he surveyed the crowd for the man he needed. A thief by the name of Jean Valjean. The man was to be relieved from duty, but he was going to be on parole for the rest of his life. Javert had seen to that. He didn't trust anyone in these shipyards to be released without some sort of lasting penalty.

Standing next to the line of shuffling prisoners, Javert looked for the man he needed. He found him, scrawny and covered with scars and filth. Placing a baton as a barrier, Javert stopped the man, the heavy chains that held his neck and wrists dragging along the slick stone. Looking him up and down, Javert wondered how strong Valjean was. He had always wondered, to tell the truth. He had seen the men work tirelessly, lifting things heavier than even Javert could manage, yet the prisoners were wiry, skinny from their small portions of broth and bread. Javert had recognized Valjean as a rope leader, near the front and hauling with all his might.

His distaste narrowing his eyes, Javert instructed the prisoner to retrieve the broken mass and soaked flag of the ruined ship. He hid his surprise well as Valjean actually lifted the thick wood and drug the flag to Javert's feet.

Finished with his games, Javert handed the prisoner his papers.

Once the business was seen to, Javert watched Valjean leave, the thick chains around his neck removed and sitting in one of the younger guard's hands. The felon was skinny, but strong from years of pulling ships. He had proven his strength in a quite amazing feat. A dark beard clung to his jaw, much longer and unkempt than Javert's own short scruff. At first, Valjean stumbled on the slick steps that led to his freedom, and Javert smiled coldly without realizing what he was doing. Shaking his head, he turned and set out to the other exit of the shipyards, the one closer to his home. He just wanted to wipe the salt from his face. Long hours at the yards and hardly any sleep had sapped his strength. The muscles of his neck and back ached from his light doze in the stiff armchair. All the man wanted to do was go home and go to sleep in a proper bed.

Once he was away from the sea, the cloudy air had changed to a bright cerulean sky. Patrons of the city were out and about in the square and along the main road. A few monger stands had set up, but nothing near a full-fledged market. Javert's eyes fell on the red cross of the hospital and he swallowed past his discomfort. No doubt Gérard Lamenté was still at the funeral home, even though the sun was starting to lower in the sky. Tomorrow, a funeral procession would move through the streets. Javert pictured Aimée's stormy blue eyes peering out at him through a veil of black. She would look pale in a grieving dress. The young woman would no doubt be crying as she followed the caskets of her mother and stillborn brother. His heart clanged as he pictured her in more misery.

Javert lowered his head as he walked, suddenly only interested in watching his shoes as his eyebrows furrowed together.

He arrived at an empty house, but traces of his guests still lingered in the air as some invisible, senseless whisper. Javert picked up the note on the table and read silently, his brows still knitted together from his walk home.

_**Dear Javert,**_

_**Forgive Anna and I, we could not stay to thank you for your kindness in person. I wish we could have, but I need to find my father and help him. You have been so kind to me and I've managed to owe you my life twice in recent days past. I cannot thank you enough for letting me stay in your home…for you finding me at the shipyards before someone else did. I hope to see you soon, so I can fully thank you in person, because I'm afraid this letter doesn't do my gratitude justice. **_

_** You are a kind man,**_

_** Aimée Lamenté **_

_**P.S. Anna and I left you some ham for your dinner…which I'm sure you don't want because it's probably going to be unbearably salty when you eat it. You did say that the salt air from the shipyards makes everything brackish…Maybe I'll bring some pastries instead. **_

By the time Javert was done reading, his face had relaxed and he exhaled a large amount of air though his nose as the corners of his mouth gently curled upwards in the privacy of his home. There, on the table sitting on a kitchen cloth, was a healthy serving of ham, the circular bone still sitting at the center of the meat.

_A welcome change from soup, cheese, and bread,_ Javert thought as he folded the note and walked to his study. One look at his desk and he knew that they had gone through his papers in search of something to write with. He shook his head, wondering if he wanted to reorganize and arrange everything back together again. He looked at the setting sun through the window and decided against it. As he turned to leave, something on the floor caught his eye. Next to the chair sat the now dried daffodil that Aimée had insisted on giving him the day the two had first met. Stone-faced, Javert picked it up and tucked it into his pocket, the same pocket that housed his stained handkerchief. He had forgotten where he had moved it.

Then, he went upstairs and washed the stubborn salt from his skin, scrubbing until he was sure there were no traces of it left. Patting his face dry, he headed over to the wardrobe and hung up his dark uniform jacket. Stretching his neck once it was freed from the stiff collar, Javert headed back downstairs where he dined on thick slices of ham. After his meal, he contemplated reading, but the moment he opened his book and tried to read the words, pictures of Aimée cloaked in black mourning dress spiked through his head. Javert shook the images from his head as best he could, but then, in Aimée's place, he thought of the inmate Valjean, now free on the streets.

As much as he tried to picture the inmate, all he could see was Anton's face grinning a sly smile at him as he slunk his way to freedom. Inmates on parole had always unsettled Javert. He did not trust Valjean at all, no matter how small of a crime he had originally committed.

With a sickening tightening of his chest, Javert realized that men never change. He stared at empty nothingness as he comprehended that Gérard will always be corrupted by business, Anton would harm out of lust, and now Jean Valjean, a man thrust back out onto the streets, would continue to steal and rob.

Trying to escape his thoughts, Javert retreated back upstairs and collapsed on his bed, fully exhausted from a day of work and a sleepless night. The last thoughts that graced behind his eyes were of Valjean's chains being lifted from him and Aimée's eyes under a black veil.


	10. Chapter 10

X: The Funeral

Pearl buttons dug into the soft flesh of her neck. The black frill of the dress's collar lightly caressed the underside of her chin and she swallowed a hard sob past an ivory broach carved to look like a cluster of roses. Black mesh covered her face in the form of a veil and Anna had traced kohl around her eyes, yet her lips were free of color. Aimée's hair was gathered in a braded bun behind her head, heavy and coiled. The wooden pew beneath her was hard an uncomfortable and her back started to ache from being held so straightly.

Her father had not looked at her yet today. He sat in front of her in the church and Anna sat next to her. The priest was old…dried and frail like an autumn leaf, but without the vivid color. His voice cracked as he read Psalms, knobby fingers tracing the outline of a cross in midair.

Aimée cast her eyes upwards, trying to keep the tears from spilling over her lids and leaving black streaks down her cheeks. The sun shone through the stained glass above them, jabbing into the church in shards of gold, crimson, and blue. Jesus watched her with painted glass eyes, his hand reaching to her as he cradled a little lamb in his lap.

_I have taken them away from you_, he whispered into her ear without moving his glass lips.

Aimée bit her tongue hard and whimpered quietly through the pain. Anna's hand held a handkerchief as it gently nudged her side. Aimée dabbed at her eyes and clutched the cloth close as she tried to keep her hands from shaking. Amazingly, she was thankful for the veil as it covered her face.

Beaudet sat across the aisle from her, Anton to his right. Aimée felt the soft pinprick of his gaze itch between her shoulders as she walked in after the two caskets and her father. She had expected him to be here…expected worse to come as she got dressed in black satin and pearl. As she walked in, she was strong for her mother. Strong in her own beauty and solemn grace. Aimée showed the pig that she was resilient, stronger than a sobbing girl in the streets. On this day, Aimée Lamenté showed the Beaudet's that she was no longer a girl. She was a woman grown, thrust into the cruel world without so much as a warning.

As she sat in the church, Aimée had not allowed herself to lower her head.

Someone in the back of the church stifled a cough and she blinked her shining eyes. The priest was starting to finish up his sermon and the caskets shone with an ebony gloss. Lilies were resting on the cover, the white flowers looking like piles of snow. Melanie Lamenté had always hated the snow….

Aimée's hands clasped together so tightly that her fingers ached in her black lace gloves.

"Amen," the church hummed as the sermon finally finished. The organ picked up in a requiem and the people stood.

The paid pallbearers that had stood in the corner of the chapel stepped forward and picked up the coffins, eight in all. Six for her mother and two for her brother. They wore black hats and thick black coats, the collars stiff under their chins. Some wore sideburns, others mustaches. Aimée knew that they were good friends of her father, yet she did not recognize any faces.

Once the coffins passed her pew, she smoothly stepped into the aisle and followed suite with measured steps, falling in next to her father. He reached out and placed a hand at her back, his first interaction with her in two days. Aimée bit her lip as she realized this light touch was the gentlest he'd ever touched her. Behind her, Anna walked with her head lowered, wearing black but not forced to cover her face in a veil. Silently, the whole church trickled out the wide, oak doors. Family, friends, and associates had come from as far as they could under the short, unexpected notice. Still, the whole group only filled about five or six rows of pews.

A long carriage pulled by six black horses sat in front of the church. The escort was nothing extravagant, no feathers on the horses' brows, or polished silver decor on the carriage, yet the whole thing was still nicer than Aimée's father could afford. Mayor Beaudet had donated a large sum of money for the funeral when he had heard the news.

_Probably trying to pay his guilt,_ Aimée had thought bitterly.

Gérard Lamenté pulled himself up next to the hearse's coachman after both caskets were slid into place from the back. Aimée and Anna walked behind the hearse and got into a much smaller carriage in order to be led to the cemetery. The two women bumped along in silence until they could see the outline of stone crosses and headstones through their window. Aimée's mouth turned harshly downwards and she brought a hand to her face. She chocked back sobs as Anna's hand slid over hers and they entwined their fingers with a tight squeeze.

"_I shall fear no evil…" _Anna murmured as she craned her neck to look at the cemetery.

"_I shall fear no evil."_ Aimée repeated as the carriage bumped and rolled to a stop.

The coachman hopped off his seat and quickly opened the door for the two young ladies. Behind them, other coaches were starting to empty. Aimée's eyes fell on Anton as he ducked underneath the small door of the Mayor's own private box. She looked away before his sly eyes found her.

She momentarily forgot how to breathe as she looked at the two trenches dug in the ground. Thick, dark soil sat in mounds next to the graves and wooden crosses sat as temporary headstones as the smith worked to carve permanent grave markers. The priest had set up next to the graves and started reading from his bible once more, shouting the words of Christ over the sea air of Toulon's graveyard. The pallbearers lowered the coffins in, mother next to child, and the priests words started to fall away as Aimée watched the lilies on the casket. Her face felt numb, as did her hands and feet. The priest and most of the crowd started to thin and Aimée was oblivious as men pitied her and women whispered sympathetic nothings in her ear as they walked by. Gérard received sad handshakes and claps on the back, but his eyes were red-rimmed and weary, his thank-yous listless and quiet. Anna lightly touched her shoulder as two young men with shovels started to fill in the graves, the soil almost hissing as it scattered across the wood of the caskets.

"Come, Master Beaudet is serving us dinner at his estate. We must say our goodbyes."

"I'm not going there," Aimée's voice held much more resentment than Anna deserved.

Anna was about to speak again when Gérard put a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Aimée wishes to stay. Leave us," he said. By the sound of his tone, he had not forgotten that Anna was a housemaid.

"You never got to say goodbye," Gérard said as he stood next to his daughter and the gravediggers continued to shower dirt over the coffins.

Aimée did not speak or nod.

Gérard's sigh was as ragged as the shredded sail of a sunken ship. "It is just us now, Aimée."

"Yes," her voice was cold.

"Would you like some time alone? I could leave a carriage," he knew not how to speak to her.

"Yes."

"Very well…have the driver take you to Beaudet's when you are ready," the way he spoke made it apparent that she was still expected to show up to the dinner that the mayor was providing for them.

Aimée gave a weak nod underneath her veil as her father turned to go. It was just her and the gravediggers, but they ignored her to the fullest extent. They were used to relatives numbed by grief. They'd even seen people stay throughout the night at the grave of some lost lover or mentor. When the two men were finished, they gave her a small nod and left, their spades over their shoulders.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Javert left his post. His heart clenched as he heard the dull pang of funeral bells echo throughout the city. Javert turned and looked through the main street and his eyes fell on the funeral procession as if twisted its way through the city, a solid black carriage followed by a few passenger cars. His stormy green eyes followed the black parade and he swore he could almost hear the snorting of the horses.

He spun on his heel and quickly descended the steps of the shipyard. A few of his fellow officers watched him leave, their eyebrows raised in confusion, but they quickly got back to work, realizing that Javert was their commander, and he could probably do as he pleased. However, the stoic Javert never left his post, which was cause for some whispers.

Javert leaned forward as he walked, nearly quickly enough to be considered a jog, through the alleyways and buildings, trying to get to the cemetery, which was a near mile outside of town. The horses from the coaches left piles of muck in the streets that he had to doge, and people were watching from their windows and stands, not knowing who Melanie Lamenté was, but assuming the family had money. Javert had no doubt that Beaudet had a hand in the proceedings.

Quickly realizing how intently he had been walking, Javert toned it down a few notches. He slowed his stride, stood back up straight, and clasped his hands behind his back. An unnoticeable officer out on patrol or dinner break. Once the last carriage had clattered down the road, the people of Toulon went back to their business, sweeping, shopping, and cooking.

_Please let her be strong_ , he found himself thinking as he walked onwards.

* * *

_Why is it so hard to be strong?_ Aimée asked herself as she stared at the dirt that covered her mother. She had lapsed into lonesomeness, everybody gone back to their lives as she stood, the ever faithful child, next to her mother and brother. She bent over and ran her fingers through the mounds of earth that rose gently in front of the pine crosses. The soil was cool and moist, sticking together almost like clay did. She struggled to remember her mother's last words to her.

"_My beautiful family…I wish I could go with you," _Melanie was sending her way to Beaudet's party, the night that started the streak of hell.

Aimée remembered her mother's tight hug and her scent of chamomile and honey, her gapped smile and dusting of freckles. A sob stung at the back of the young woman's throat and she actually held her breath to keep it inside.

"I still remember everything you've ever told me, Mama," Aimée found herself whispering. "Never go to the shipyards at night, never pay a beggar-man, never leave food on your plate when you are a guest."

Her words sounded like mangled scrapes on slate, rough and cracking as she struggled with the onslaught of tears. "I picked out a name for my brother," she babbled, kneeling in the soft grass in front of her brother's grave, "Baby Pascal…."

The Pascal lamb who lost its life at the first Passover…a young babe like her brother.

"_Mademoiselle _Aimée_?" _a soft voice murmured once the sky began to turn the tangerine and fire of sunset. Javert stood over her, unsure of himself, but his eyes drowned beneath worry.

She looked up at him, blue eyes almost hidden by her veil and Javert took a step backwards, noticing that she looked exactly how he imagined. The air was quiet around them as they stood in the home of the dead.

"Javert..." she whispered, not knowing how else to respond. Throughout the faces of strangers and hated men, his bearded jaw and green eyes were a welcome sight and it softened her wall just a little.

When she looked at him, she started to weep. Violent, wracking sobs that shook her body and made her hide her face behind her hands. She ripped off the veil and flung it to the ground. Aimée's voice sounded like shattering glass as she wailed into her palms, her body hunched over and near shaking.

Not knowing what else to do, Javert knelt and reached for her. His hand hovered over Aimée's shoulder for a moment and he started to second guess what he was about to do. Was this right? But, as he pressed his large hand against her shoulder and gave her a gentle grip of reassurance, he knew it was right. This was what he was supposed to do.

"Aimée Lamenté," he said, his voice slow and thick with remorse and empathy for the woman, "you do not deserve any of this." The words left his mouth before he could acknowledge what they were. He sounded like a roof in a storm, a fire in a blizzard, food during a famine.

She looked at him, trying to wipe away the smeared kohl that rimmed her eyes. He handed her his handkerchief, still stained with the crème that she had left last time she used it. Black streaks met with red on the linen. Gently, he took it back from her when she was finished and tucked it back in his pocket. Then, gingerly, he took her arm in both hands, one on her elbow the other beneath her palm, and helped her up. Her gloved hand was soft in his, a baby bird in a nest of bracken bush.

Once she was up, she flung herself against him and wrapped her arms around him in pure, debilitating need. Javert's heart stopped from the surprise and he stiffened, his arms pressed against his side. She was warm, he noted, and shaking, but he kept his hands flat against his pant legs. Aimée's face was pressed against his chest and he felt awkward and useless as he stood there with her. Javert was sure that she could feel his heart thump against his ribcage in shock. He started to pray that this would end, that she would let go. Finally, after an eternity of his breath held in his lungs, Aimée released him. He relaxed a fraction, but Javert's eyes were glued to her.

Aimée felt like she needed to apologize for her actions and she felt a blush creep up her neck, hidden by the satin of her dress. She looked at her feet, the sunset glowing off her blonde hair.

"I'm sorry…" she finally murmured, "That was rude of me."

Javert shook his head. "No," his voice was quiet.

Aimée didn't meet his eyes but dared a small, relieved smile. "Anton was here today," she sniffed, fiddling with her hands in the black gloves. "Beaudet brought him."

Javert found himself stiffening again and his fists clenched. His jaw clenched and he dared a step forward, cocking his head intently as his green eyes fell on her.

She looked up and shook her head as she read Javert's mind. "No, he didn't hurt me. Didn't even speak to me. But I could feel him watching."

Javert didn't notice as his hand gently reached towards her a little. "What are you doing here alone, _mademoiselle?" _he asked. When he had first approached her, it pained him to see the poor woman all alone to wallow in her mourning once more. Javert felt a shot of hot anger against her father. How could Gérard leave his daughter by herself in a graveyard after her mother and brother's death? Javert felt a strange loyal duty to stand by her, to speak with her.

Aimée turned away from him and watched the mounds. "I wanted to stay. I wasn't done saying goodbye…."

Her shoulders jerked for a moment as she inhaled through a sob, but she kept herself composed. Javert shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

_She looks like a ghost, _Javert thought, looking at her blonde hair that paled against her black dress. His brow furrowed and he took a measured, calculated step forward so he stood next to her. Javert glanced at her before he bowed his head and noticed how terribly small the grave in front of him was.

"I wanted to name him Pascal," Aimée said, crossing her arms in front of her. It looked like she was trying to protect herself from the invisible sorrow that coursed through the air.

"Like the lamb," Javert said thickly.

"Yes, from the bible." The two lapsed into silence once more. A raven crowed across the headstones and Aimée inhaled deeply.

"My mother's name was Melanie," her voice was quiet and shaking. "She had brown hair, freckles, and a gap in her teeth."

Javert turned to look at the young woman as she recited her memories like a chant, an ethos of loyal remembrance. "I always thought her laugh was as sweet as honey, and I remember craving it when I was little." A sad smile shone through the gentle trail of tears. Javert lowered his head and cocked it to the side as he closed his eyes and listened to her words. "When I was seven, she tried to teach me how to bake. It was a disaster…burned the cake and dropped the sack of flour in the kitchen…powder got everywhere. I started to cry. Instead of getting mad, I remember her scooping up a handful and throwing it in my face. We both laughed until our stomachs hurt."

Her smile grew and she gave a rueful chuckle. Javert felt a tingling numbness trickle down his spine and he was relieved to hear that her voice was still strong in her laugh.

"I never baked after that."

Javert pictured a small little girl, her face white and smiling from the clinging flour.

"The first thing I ever remember was when I woke up from a nightmare…I must've only been about three or four. I got up and went into my parents' bedroom. Mother was up and reading by a candle, sitting in a rocking chair. I crawled into her lap and she braided my hair. She sand me a lullaby then, a song from her childhood. _Au Claire De La Lune." _

Javert knew the lullaby well. Aimée started to hum as she hugged herself tighter, her voice quiet but smooth. The sadness was still laced through her voice.

When her voice had died away, Javert lifted his head and looked out over the graveyard. "Where is your father, _mademoiselle_?"

"He's at Beaudet's house," Aimée answered, lifting her head to the sky and looking over the sunset, the indigo of night swirling with the reds and golds. She had lost track of time and she knew that she was expected to make an appearance at the dinner. "I'm expected to be there, sooner than later I'd expect." She waved her hand absentmindedly.

"Anton will be there," it was not a question that escaped Javert's lips.

She nodded and allowed herself to study Javert's face. He looked tired, she noted, gentle bags cradling his green eyes. His beard was closely trimmed to his jaw, and he looked neat, put together and professional. She realized that Javert could be considered handsome in a powerful, serious way. Yet, it may have just been the uniform that hugged his body so well.

"Why do you keep showing up?" she asked then, her eyebrows clenched together.

Javert blinked, "What do you mean, _mademoiselle?"_

She shook her head absentmindedly. "Judge me how you will for what I'm about to say next. It's almost like you're a guardian angel, _Monsieur _Javert. Finding me after I was attacked, finding me in the storm, and finding me now." Her voice was so quiet, Javert had to strain to hear her.

"I must make sure that the people are safe. I'm trying to start a life with the law, and I consider it a duty," he recited.

Aimée dared give him a smile that told him she didn't believe what he said. "I just wanted to sincerely thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You've helped me more than you know. You are a kind man."

Javert swallowed her gratitude and felt it blossom in his chest, spreading a warmth he had not known down to his feet.

"I know you've given me so much already…but, would you please come with me to Beaudet's? There is no one in that house that I can trust…and I don't have the strength to face that pig Anton on my own…." Her watery eyes were hopeful as they looked up at him, wide and blue as the ocean.

Javert found himself nodding and holding out his arm before he could stop himself.

"My father left a carriage there," Aimée said and pointed to the path that wound its way through the graveyard.

Managing to hide his uneasiness, Javert led her to the coach, her arm looped through his and her hand rested on his forearm lightly, as pale as porcelain under the lace gloves. The coachman didn't spare them a glance as Javert opened the door and helped Aimée get inside. The carriage was small, and he sat across from her, watching her quietly. He was amazed at how strong she was, as she looked out the window when the wheels started to roll. The sun had cast a glow over the graveyard, casting the headstones in lazy orange light and giving the graves an air of warmth, even though it was filled with the cold dead.

"Mama brought light everywhere she went," Aimée said as she looked at the graves one last time before she turned and kept her eyes in her lap.

Javert did not know what to say. His eyes turned upwards to the ceiling before he closed them in a long blink. She hummed her lullaby again as the carriage bumped along, wrapping herself in whatever comfort she could salvage. Javert listened until the wheels of slowed to a stop in front of Beaudet's now familiar estate. Across from him, he heard Aimée's voice hitch in her throat.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home, _mademoiselle?" _Javert asked as the coachman clicked the door open.

"No, father wants me here."

Javert nodded and got out of the cab, holding up his hand to help her down the steps. Aimée grabbed his hand as she struggled to walk in the uncomfortable mourning dress. She momentarily thought of his hands, how she had imagined them to be rough and strong. However, she could not tell because her own hands were covered in black gloves, yet his fingers felt solid as they cradled her gently.

Giving her his arm once more as the carriage rolled away, Javert slowly led her up the steps. The house twinkled in the dusk light, candles and lamps lighting chandeliers and keeping the halls warm with yellow light. It seemed like the people inside were trying their best to pretend that the funeral had not happened.

With the creak of the large wooden doors, Beaudet met them. His usual rosy face was sallow as he looked at Aimée Lamenté, ignoring her stone-faced escort. Javert felt her hand tighten on his forearm though the wool of his coat. The mayor approached her and held his hands on her shoulders.

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté," Beaudet said, his voice quiet as he noticed how much her tired eyes darkened when they fell on him. He was not a naive man.

"_Monsieur."_

Javert bowed his head to the mayor and stood back a few steps. "Excuse me, _Monsieur_

Beaudet," he said "I was just escorting the lady to your dinner, I'll take my leave."

At his words, Beaudet looked at Javert, seeming to notice him for the first time. Quickly, he held a hand out to him before he could retreat backwards too far. "No, I would be honored if you stayed, as my guest, Javert. You've helped _Mademoiselle _Lamenté over these past few days. Let me show you my gratitude with a hot meal and cool wine." Beaudet looked as if he desperately wanted Javert to stay. As he spoke to the commander of the shipyard, Beaudet glanced at Aimée, hoping that what he was saying would reflect positively in her eyes.

"Javert, please, go inside, my servants will lead you to the dining room. But, would you permit me a moment alone with the _mademoiselle?"_

Green eyes met stormy blue as he looked to her. Aimée gave him a small nod and he turned his gaze back to the mayor as he gave him a curt nod. "I will be waiting inside."

The crickets started to wake as Javert's footsteps tapped against the marble steps. Soon, he was inside and he closed the door behind him, thrusting the girl and the mayor in private dusk. Beaudet watched until the door shut until he turned to Aimée, his eyes shining in the fading light and his round face frowning. He was wearing a satin black coat and trousers, his white stockings coming down and meeting shined black shoes.

Aimée was silent as she watched him, and angry heat starting to rise in her throat like bile behind the pearl buttons of her dress. The air started to moisten with the traces of dew and her patience and composure was wearing thin from the exhausting day. Aimée felt her throat parch and bones start to ache as she watched the fat mayor in silence.

"Aimée, I am so…so sorry," he finally said, his eyes sincere.

Her own narrowed. She shook her head and pushed past him, trying to climb the stairs as quickly as her dress would allow.

"I told your father not to betroth you," he called up to her. Aimée paused on the stairs and turned, watching him climb towards her. "You've been in enough pain as it is. I was being a coward before, no better than my ass of a nephew," Beaudet continued, looking at her almost sheepishly as he admitted his wrongs. "I didn't tell them the truth…I couldn't do that to my family, but I told Gérard that it would be a mistake for a marriage. I gave him charge of my accounts so he had no reason to marry you off."

The evening swirled around them and faint chirps came from the hidden crickets.

"I'm sorry…I know this is only a small consolation…but I thought it might help," he looked at her, his once cheerful face now a clean slate of guilt.

Aimée, however, wanted to faint from relief. "What did my father say?"

Beaudet did not ignore the tone of hopefulness in her voice. "He agreed that he would not pursue Anton as a suitor for you. You will not be forced to marry him. He agreed to take my business, you do not have to do anything for him, my dear. I cannot stress again how sorry I am for what has befallen you, for what you have gone through. At least let me try and fix what my family had done."

The heart that beat in her chest was kind and forgiving. She looked at Beaudet, looking like a sad bulldog in the receding light, and did something that surprised her. She leaned over and gave him a chaste peck on his cheek. Color started to rise to his face and Beaudet exhaled a long sigh, knowing that he was forgiven without her words.

He dared smile at the daughter of his dear friend and gave her his arm. "Come, let's get you something to eat."

"Thank you," she said, meaning it in more ways than one.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Hey there everybody! Things are starting to move along here! As we move here, we'll see what happens :) hope you enjoy!**_

XI: Fireworks

Weeks passed in healing silence. Javert had grown busier with patrols as he neared his goal of becoming Inspector, and he hadn't talked much to Aimée since the funeral. The dinner at the mayor's mansion had been the quietest meal Javert had ever eaten Aimée had sat across from him and he couldn't prevent himself from watching her, making sure she ate. Gérard had said a few tired words to him, thanking him for bringing her back to the meal and even expressed gratitude for finding her in the storm.

"I just wasn't in my right mind," Gérard had said, exhaling into his soup, "but you kept her safe."

Javert couldn't tell if his gratitude was genuine or forced.

As he walked the streets with his hands clasped behind his back, he watched the people of Toulon. Fat bread-makers, skinny weavers, strong butchers, he began to recognize everyone in the city slowly but surely. Javert began spending less and less time at the shipyards. He would check in every now and then, grace or curse the future of an inmate with a signature or command other guards to shape up, but he was mostly scouring the streets.

Aimée grew stronger as this time passed, but she never grew a stranger. A few times, Javert had spotted her in the square. Their eyes met, stormy blue to stony green, his downturned and almost questioning. She would give him a little smile and a small nod, and he would exhale in small relief. These small gestures let him know that she was ok, that she was strong. Once or twice, they spoke to each other, small passing things that floated in the air out of courtesy.

"How are you today, _monsieur?" _

"Fine, and yourself?"

"I'm all right."

They might say a few things about the weather or maybe even about some sort of town gossip, but the only conversation Javert needed was that short, quick glance that she would throw him. Words weren't needed.

Aimée herself was touched by his worry. Gérard had immersed himself so deeply in Beaudet's accounts that she sometimes wondered if he had mourned her mother or stillborn brother at all. The thoughts came to her bitterly, and she would always try and force them away out of loyalty to her father's integrity. Of course he had mourned his wife. What a cruel thing to think. However, as more and more of her evenings were spent in just Anna's company, she started to grow resentful towards the man.

As she walked to the market nearly every day, Aimée found herself scanning the crowds for a bearded man with perfect posture. If she was lucky enough to stumble across him, a look was guaranteed. Aimée was always afraid of bothering him when he was on patrol, so she never spoke to him unless they practically bumped shoulders. Javert would always meet her eyes first, or, rather, she would meet his eyes and already discover them watching her, intent with concern.

As time passed, she would remember their conversations at night. Aimée loved to remember him telling her about Morocco when he was a ship guard. As he spoke, she remembered his eyes going slightly out of focus, as if he was lost in thought or memory. She could almost pretend to smell the thick spices in the air and hear the pounding of drums with the clatter of tambourines.

Aimée tried not to remember him talking to her in the graveyard, the new softness that had melted into his voice as he struggled to find a way to comfort her. The poor man was so unused to human interaction that the mere thought of escorting her mad him stiffen and glance around nervously. Aimée wanted to kick herself every time she remembered about her uncontrollable burst of need in the grave yard. The burst that drove her to wrap her arms around him tightly. He was uncomfortable, stiff, and near frightened, but when she had apologized, Javert's face softened and he told her not to.

Aimée's hair cascaded down and tickled her neck as she shook her head at night before she slept. She was amazed at how much comfort she felt just looking into someone eyes every now and then for weeks of silence. She hoped that by this time she wouldn't be considered foolish to call him a friend.

* * *

After a month had passed, Javert was riding on his first full time patrol, twenty-four hours. It was Bastille Day, the same day that the walls of the famous prison had been stormed and the inglorious French Revolution had started. Javert didn't appreciate anarchy or rebellion, so he had always grown sour on celebrations like this. No doubt he would be expected to arrive at the mayor's home for a party. He had been cast into the fat mayor's circle of associates and was invited.

Beaudet had provided him his very own horse to patrol with, a powerful blue-roan male with a sleek dark mane and tale. His saddle was black leather with metal studs and the horse's bit glinted in polished silver. Worn reigns rested in between the fingers of Javert's riding gloves, and he inhaled deeply, greatly enjoying the feeling of the horse moving beneath him as he rode above the people of Toulon. The horse's heavy hooves clopped against the packed earth of the streets lazily.

There was a gathering of people in the square that afternoon, all of them crowding the fountain. The solid thumps of hooves changed to a tapping clack as the horse went from packed dirt to cobblestones. Javert craned his neck to try and see over the crowd and he found a man sitting in the fountain, literally in the fountain, soaked to the bone and his white shirt sticking transparently to his chest. Javert's face sobered as the crowd parted

"You there, what are you doing?" he said, his voice like stone. The man looked up from his spot in the fountain, hair flopped in his face.

"Sitting," he said.

"In a fountain?" Javert's eyebrows furrowed and he swung himself off of his horse's back. The roan shifted its weight from foot to foot and snorted. "Get out."

The man held up his hands. "Alright," he said and complied. He stepped out of the water and the crowd watched him.

"What are you doing?" Javert asked again, looking him over cynically.

"A demonstration. I'm a performer."

"What kind of demonstration?" Javert turned and looked over his shoulder before he waved an arm at the crowd. "Go on," he told them, "On your way."

With a few soft grumbles, the people dissipated. Javert's green eyes were back on the man. Sandy blonde hair and gray eyes. Tall and lean, but not thin. Javert leaned backwards a little on his heels and rested a hand on the butt of his baton that lay strapped to his waist.

"I was doing a demonstration on how wondrous the human body was," the blonde answered. "I was holding my breath. I had reached near three minutes before you rode up."

"And why in God's name would you do that?" Javert's nerves were starting to fray as he struggled to find sense in the young man's actions.

Smiling, he reached into his pockets and showed Javert a handful of coins.

"Soliciting is not allowed in the square. What is your name?"

"Julian," the man answered, turning and pocketing the money. "I swear, I wasn't trying to cause trouble, just wanted to get a few coins in order to eat."

"Where are you from?" Toulon was a small, simple town, barely a city. Showman's and traveling performers were rare if not unheard of here.

"Paris, traveling the countryside to reach my uncle."

Javert grunted. "Well, if you plan on pandering for more coins, I suggest you get out of here before I arrest you." He turned and swung himself up on his horse. The sky was overcast above him, as gray as the sea foam.

Julian gave him a sardonic wave over his shoulder as he left. "I pray we never meet again, Officer."

Javert watched him go, his mouth a hard frown. He didn't trust young men. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled on the reins and nudged the horse into a trot, the heavy footsteps clopping on the stone. Julian's face was easy enough to imprint on his mind, he would be sure not to forget it.

Along with his first patrol, Javert was expected to check into the city hall's justice department. Toulon only needed one or two officers to patrol the streets, so the main office was little more than a pantry in the pillared courthouse. Tying up his horse before the city building, he patted the animal's thick neck as he turned away from it and walked up the stairs, curtly removing his riding gloves.

Three knocks on the wooden door signaled his presence to the justice bookkeeper. A frail man, nearing the age of eighty with spindly spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose answered the door.

"Ah, _bonjour_, _Monsieur _Javert," he said, standing aside and letting him in. "How is our city today, hmm? Are you enjoying your patrol?"

Javert nodded, "The streets are clean, sir."

"Oh hush, enough of that 'sir' nonsense, I'm just a bookkeeper!" the old man shuffled some papers and Javert noticed an engraved plaque resting atop his desk.

_Philippe Rousset_ was his name. Philippe thumbed through some papers and withdrew a folded note. The justice seal of Paris was stamped onto the parchment. Javert's eyebrows rose in surprise when he recognized the seal.

"I'm glad you stopped in, Javert," Philippe coughed, extending the letter. "This arrived for you this morning. Bad news, I'm afraid."

Javert swallowed and took the letter and it felt as heavy as concrete as he unfolded it and started to scan the neat words.

"That inmate disappeared. Skipped on his parole. He was supposed to meet with the officers, but he never arrived. Inquiry spotted him at a convent and that was the last time anyone had seen him."

"Valjean…" Javert murmured, angrily looking up from the paper. "He ran from police when he was being arrested. I should've never filled out his parole paperwork." The letter crumpled as his hands fisted.

Philippe nodded. "The courts knew you were head of the prison here. They're requesting you be promoted straight away to Inspector so you can begin a pursuit. I expect that after this twenty-four hour shift, Beaudet will sign the necessary paperwork and you will head to Paris."

Paris…Javert was going to Paris. That about a day's ride by carriage. He knew he should be excited, but his face fell and he turned to his characteristic stone. He gave the bookkeeper a nod and turned to leave, thanking him for his time.

The air was heavy outside, thick with summer sun, and flags had been hung from windows. Red, white, and blue swung lazily in the light breeze. The market bustled and bakers were slaving away, making cakes that were high in demand. Holidays always meant busy days for pastry chefs and confectioners. As he rode past a café that had strawberry pastries sitting in the window, dusted with powdered sugar, he thought of the handkerchief he still kept in his pocket, the stains still rubbed into the cloth.

With a pang that almost thrust him off his horse, he realized that he would be leaving Toulon…and the girl that lived there. Aimée would be alone here, alone with the people she despised. Javert wasn't a naive man, he guessed that his looks were a welcome sight in her life, even if they were fleeting. He recognized how her face softened and she dared even smile as she gave him a small nod before turning away to talk with Anna.

His horse snorted against his reins, tossing his head as if he felt Javert's anxiety.

But he couldn't refuse this job. Inspector had been what Javert had been striving towards for years. Those long, salt-encrusted days at the shipyards and tireless nights reading about the law. This position was more important to him than anything he had ever known. The desire to keep France safe was finally about to meet the means and power that he needed.

_She would understand_, Javert convinced himself as he continued around the city, _it's been a month and she hasn't needed you. She'll forget you sooner or later._

* * *

Once again, Aimée Lamenté found herself sitting in a lavish dress in Beaudet's ornate hall. Things were still a little awkward between her and the mayor, but they were definitely on friendlier terms. She had smiled when he greeted her and her father back into his home and even dared kiss her hand. This time, she was wearing a deep purple gown, an amethyst and pearl choker across her neck

Even if she wasn't looking forward to the party very much, she was relieved to be associating with other people. Her father's face was a rarity and, even though she had grown close to the servant, she craved other attention. She still grieved at night for her mother's company, yet this night she was feeling better than she ever had, the lush silk covering her body making her feel beautiful for once. Aimee's hair, usually dusty blonde, now shone with a golden gleam as it cascaded down her shoulder in lazy curls. She smiled at people with painted lips and looked at them through kohl lashes.

At first, whispers followed the young woman as she entered Beaudet's hall.

"Poor little Aimée." "What a tragedy." "All alone with her father?"

Aimée had grown stronger in her mourning and she began to despise he pity that clung to her.

Anton was still in town, even a month later. She saw him, craning his neck to look at the women hungrily, practically rubbing his hands together as he schemed. Aimée waited patiently, cradling the champagne in her hand with tender fingers. When the fox's eyes landed on the once little duckling, he was amazed to see that she had flourished in her pain. Stronger, prouder, more of a woman than he would ever hope to court. Her chin rose as she glared at him, and she sipped at her drink before turning away and looking for other people to mingle with.

Her father had left her alone for the evening as he went off to talk with other bankers he recognized. She was a little disappointed, thinking that this evening she would finally be able to spend some time with him.

_You would think he would want to stay with the only family he's got,_ Aimée thought bitterly as she sipped her drink again.

When she would find people she recognized, their conversation was stiff and formal. No doubt they were waiting for her to break down and sob uncontrollably or something like that. They were cautious in their words, mentally scanning everything they said to make sure that nothing would be considered offensive or sensitive. Finally, with the sad huff of failure, Aimée stood by herself watching people dance and toast the revolution.

Music swirled around her and she smiled, content with just seeing some happiness around her.

The doors opened and Aimée looked over as Javert strode in. She craned her neck over the crowd as she spotted Beaudet walk over to him, shake his hand fervently, and clap him on the back of the shoulder. Javert nodded, said something to the mayor, and looked around.

As if they were two magnets, their eyes found each other without trouble. Javert paused as he spoke, but then blinked and turned his attention back to Beaudet. The mayor laughed and reached to a servant then thrust the glass of champagne into Javert's hand. Turning, fat Beaudet found Aimée standing by her lonesome, and marched over to her. Javert followed at a safe distance, cautiously staring at her. She shivered a moment, feeling as if his eyes could see straight into her thoughts.

"Aimée, my dear, enjoying the night of the revolution? he asked, surprisingly sober. She didn't know it, but the mayor had sworn off the drink once the tragedies of the last month had died down.

"Yes, Beaudet," she had dropped the formalities long ago. Her champagne had started to warm and the sharpness of the warmed alcohol started to replace the tang.

"Well, I have a surprise for this evening. A friend of mine just got back from traveling in the Orient," he bragged, "And he brought back cases of fireworks. Big exploding things that fill up the sky with color and sound. Soon here, we're going to be lighting them off. Isn't that exciting?"

Aimée had grown used to pretending. "Oh, very exciting!" she exclaimed, "I can't wait!"

He smiled, his cheeks rosy from happiness instead of wine. "I'll go and find your father. I have a few matters to discuss with him about my finances." He gave Aimée and Javert once last friendly blink before he turned and threaded his way through his party.

Aimée watched him go before she turned and looked at Javert, his face even and emotionless. The collar of his uniform was high and the buttons polished. It fit him well. She quickly glanced at the floor.

"How are you, _monsieur _Javert?" she asked.

"I'm doing well," he said, as stiffly as usual. He was fearful of what silence might bring, so when he started to feel himself lapse into it, he blurted, "I have a horse now."

Surprisingly, she brightened, looking like the Aimée he was comfortable with. The one that handed him dirty flowers, not the one dressed up behind elegance. "Can I see him?" she asked.

He blinked at her. "You want to see my horse?"

"Yes."

"Haven't you ever seen a horse before, _mademoiselle?" _he asked.

"Of course I have…I just want to get out of this house," she replied, rolling her eyes and waving her hand. His eyes lightened as he watched the habit.

"Alright."

The night was much cooler than the day had been. No one noticed as they quickly descended the steps from Beaudet's twinkling house. Javert led her down the carriage path a little ways to where his horse was tied up, its head lowered as it munched at the dewy grass. At their approach, the horse looked up, black strands of his mane resting between its dark, calm eyes.

Aimée made a little sound of happiness when she saw him and stepped forward, holding her hand out to the horse's velvet nose. It huffed once or twice over her hand, cascading it with warm breath, and then looked up to its rider. She bit her lip in the night as she pressed her palm against the horse's thick neck.

"He's beautiful," she said softly as Javert stood a couple steps behind her, watching her hand pet the blue-roan coat.

Javert was silent as he stood aside. He knew he had to tell her about his leaving. There was a possibility that he wouldn't even be in Toulon tomorrow night. He wasn't even supposed to be at this party…he was supposed to be out on the streets patrolling. But, once he looked at that house twinkling up on the hill, he knew she would be inside.

"What's his name?" she asked suddenly, turning and looking over her shoulder at him. He noticed how the moonlight played across her hair, turning it from gold to silver.

"I haven't named him," he said.

"What? You have to name your horse!" she exclaimed, turning and looking at him quizzically, her arms crossed in front of her. Javert noted how particularly stubborn she looked. She stuck out her chin. "Let me name him."

"As you wish," he said as he felt the corners of his mouth lilt upwards and he extended a hand to the horse.

She thought a moment. "Ombre."

He looked at the horse and decided the name fit. "Very well, Ombre."

Aimée grinned and turned back to the horse, this time running her hands along the short hair of his muzzle. She liked the way the horse's warm breath softy puffed against her hand as she ran her hands over his soft nose. She bent down, tore up some grass, and held it out for him and giggled when his big lips fluttered against her palm.

_She looks happy_, Javert thought. _Happier than I've seen her._

When she turned to look at him, his heart skipped a beat as he noticed her eyes in the darkness. They were no longer hidden behind pain…they were as bright and blue as the first day they had met.

"I've been all right," Aimée said, answering his unasked question. "I wish we could've talked more, but I know you were busy with your patrols. I'm doing ok."

At her words, Javert felt his body relax in relief. "I was going to ask you, _mademoiselle."_

Aimée held up her hand, "Please…I don't want to ask you again. Call me Aimée. I feel like we've known each other enough to throw those stupid formalities away.

Javert swallowed and clenched and unclenched his hands. "Aimée," he said softly. He decided he liked the way her name felt as it left his mouth. Almost a sigh, light as a feather and sweet, like a crisp bite of an apple.

She smiled at him. "There…that wasn't so hard."

No…it wasn't. But it was going to be. Now he felt an overpowering sense of duty to her, a protection that he could not explain nor deny. The second her name escaped his lips, Javert's heart twisted as he realized he would be leaving her here, alone in the town that had tried to break her, with the people that left her alone in that graveyard.

"You want to say something," she said, looking at him and crossing her arms across her deep purple dress.

Javert realized that his mouth was gently hanging slack. He quickly closed it and looked down to his shoes. Closing his eyes, he searched inside himself for the courage to meet her eyes and tell her. He cleared his throat and lifted his head, but found that he was looking past her, to Ombre.

"_Mademoiselle-_ Aimée- I must tell you something." Javert was struggling with his words and his voice was low and thick, sluggish with the desire to close his mouth. "I'm-"

But before the man could finish, the sky exploded behind him. He whirled and craned his neck upwards, amazed at the blue and red showers that filled the night sky. Another dazzling streak of pure white rocketed above Beaudet's house and exploded into a thousand crackling sparks.

"Oh my god…" Aimée breathed, stepping forward and her hair cascading from her head as she held her head upwards to watch the show. She flinched once when an especially loud boom filled the sky, but she quickly recovered. The red and white light kissed at her face in the night. Aimée stood close to Javert as they both watched the fireworks. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, watching with pure awe and wonder plastered across his face. The firmness was gone, his stone features replaced by an actual human face.

She saw him blink in surprise three of the fireworks exploded in unison over Beaudet's land. Aimée smiled and reached out to him, finding his hand and enveloping it with her own. He stiffened at first, and turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face. Giving him a smile, she squeezed his hand. Without gloves she could feel that his skin was warm and rough against hers, his fingers thick. Aimée threw caution to the wind and moved so that her fingers were entwined with his. She squeezed again, realizing that he was uncomfortable.

Then, gently, tentatively, she felt his fingers tighten in response.

She stood closer and felt the fabric of his coat brushing against his exposed arm. They both craned their necks to watch the colored miracles burst into the sky.


	12. Chapter 12

XII: Harsh Words

Aimée's thumb tracing along his finger snapped Javert from his awe. He realized fully then that his hand was entwined with Aimée's. It was new to him, the comfort and easiness of just holding on to another human being. The warmth of touch brought out a new side to him, one that he had thought he lost after years of looking into the face of lawbreakers. Javert's eyes were closed as the last firework died away, head bowed and brows furrowed together.

"Javert…is everything alright?" Aimée asked, looking at him. "What's wrong?" She let go of his hand and he found himself immediately missing the warmth. Javert stiffened when he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

"I'm leaving," he finally said, too ashamed to look up at her. The touch from his shoulder retreated and he was left alone in the darkness from his lids.

"What?"

The breath that left his lungs was heavy. "I'm leaving," he repeated, forcing himself to look at her. "I'm leaving Toulon."

She looked at him then, beautiful in the moonlight, porcelain skin, stormy eyes, hair that glowed like silver. The deep purple dress flowed from her like a river of fine silk and her necklace brought Javert's gaze to the curve of her throat as it met her collarbone. She looked so strong…so much better than what he had seen before.

And now he was probably going to destroy her once again.

_How many more cruelties must one woman take? _he lamented in his head.

Aimée shook her head. "No, you're not."

"I am."

"But…but…" It was a mystery why his words had sucked the air from her lungs. As she recalled, she never really _actually_ gotten to know the man. But, he had shone kindness and security to her when no one else had. Carried her from danger and let her stay in his own house.

"It's for my job. An inmate, Valjean, he broke his parole. I've been assigned to find him." Javert spoke as quickly as he could, trying to make Aimée understand that he _had _to leave. There was no other option. Nothing he could do.

"It's for your job?" she asked, her eyes dating about his face. Aimée took a step towards him and Javert retreated, already knowing what she was going to say. "You're doing this for a job? Leaving?"

"It's more than that, I have to find-"

Aimée started to fill a heat rise in her chest. "You're no better than my father. Leaving to just get a promotion."

His face darkened at her words. "I'm nothing like your father," he said with a surprising bite. "I stayed with you after he left you. I found you in the rain, I've watched you heal."

She stepped backwards, surprised. Then, Aimée sniffed and felt the all too familiar pinpricks start behind her eyes. She shook her head, forcing the tears to stay away. She was not going to cry…too much crying. Aimée Lamenté hoped she was never going to cry again.

Javert reached out to her, but she stepped back again, her back almost pressing against Ombre's shoulder.

"I was hoping we could become friends," she said.

Javert's face fell. "I…I had thought we already were, _mademoiselle." _Had he judged everything wrong? He had never really gotten a chance to know someone...maybe he had exaggerated how well he knew the young woman.

"Makes it even worse then," she said bitterly.

Javert's hand fell limply at his side. The memory of her fingers entwined with his was now just a shadow of a memory. "I'm telling you this because you deserve to know. I was not going to leave you without explanation." His voice was getting stronger as he spoke to her. "I do not want to see you hurt again."

The woman's eyes glistened in the darkness and Javert bit the inside of his cheek. She held up a hand to her face and gave one little sob, her other hand desperately trying to wipe away the threat of tears. Amazingly, her kohl did not streak against her lids.

"Who will…" she didn't finish, was lost for words. Javert stepped forward and, in the boldest move of his life, let his heavy hands rest on her shoulders. She shivered from the sudden warmth.

"You've given me inspiration to enforce the law, Aimée," he said softly, her name leaving sparks in his mouth, "you've made me want to protect those who cannot protect themselves. In order to do that, I need authority. This job will give me just that."

He cast his eyes downwards as his words became too heavy to bear. Aimée felt her stab of anger start to disappear as his somber exterior started to crumble before her very eyes. She began to see a living, breathing man in front of her, not a stern uniform.

"I can't stand it anymore, stepping aside while men like Anton or your father go about harming others." When he looked up, his green eyes were pleading with her, downturned and sad, desperate for her to understand the words that he spoke. Javert ignored the discomfort he had, the uneasiness that came with confession. This was too important to give her anything but the truth…_his_ truth. He was tired of living his life without anyone knowing what he thought, what he felt. A man could only take so many years of solitude.

"Where will you go?"

"Paris."

She swallowed, Paris was so far, it seemed. A world away.

"You admitted you assumed we were friends," she said quietly.

Javert nodded. "I assumed we were."

Aimée searched his face. "Why?"

Javert withdrew his hands from her shoulders. "Why what?"

"Why?" she asked again, "Why speak to me in the first place? Why watch over me so many times, why worry? I see it in your eyes every time you look at me…worried I might break like some glass doll."

Javert did not know the exact reason why, so he stayed quiet. He didn't know if he thought she needed his help, or if he thought she was alone and desperate for someone to be there for her. Maybe it was even her beauty, as undeniable as it was, the stormy blue eyes that held as much majesty as the roiling ocean. Maybe Javert did it out of his own loneliness, his own feeling of isolation that kept him awake at night in his big empty house.

"I don't know," he finally admitted, looking down. This new Javert that stood in front of Aimée was starting to disappear, starting to change back into the stiff, uncomfortable man she was familiar with.

Aimée found herself not wanting that to happen.  
"Do you want to leave?" she asked, crouching slightly as she tried to catch his eyes. His gaze remained on the stone beneath his shoes.

"I have to leave," he answered, not knowing what to admit.

"I asked you if you _wanted_ to leave, Javert."

He cringed slightly, a boy too embarrassed to meet his mother's eyes after he stole sweets from the baker. If he was honest to her, she would look at him like he was an awkward, desperate child. A man too swept up in his own loneliness, holding on to one of the only friend he had made in his life.

Aimée took his silence in stride, building up her wall so the hurt would stay hidden. "Well," she said curtly, crossing her arms in front of her. "I wish you the best. We don't even know anything about each other, no use in getting upset over it." She pushed past him to leave, heading back to the light and hopefully more champagne.

"Your mother's name was Melanie Lamenté," Javert called after her, turning and watching her go. "She had brown hair, freckles, and a gap in her teeth." He didn't know why the words left his mouth, but when they did he noticed the desperation that floated with them. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. She paused on the stairs. "You wanted to name your brother Pascal. Your father does finance."

"What are you doing?" she asked, turning.

"You said we didn't know each other." Javert's voice was flat.

Her eyes darkened. "Are you trying to make this even harder for me? Proving that you know these things, that you've cared enough to listen to what I say before you leave?"

Javert took a step back as she approached him, pointing to his chest. It was Aimee's turn to confess. "Even though you've never told me anything about you, not even your full name, I couldn't help myself from feeling like you cared when no one else did. You don't know how relieved I was when I saw you in the rain or how touched I was that you came to the cemetery. You carried me across acres of land after I was attacked, fought for me."

Aimee's voice was rising and Javert was thankful that they were alone. She was standing closely now, her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. "And this past month? We never spoke, or when we did it was short lived. Yet, through all that, I knew that there was someone out there that cared enough to know how I was doing. A friend that worried. And now, after all of that, after we've finally come to terms with what we think, you pack up for some shining new job and leave me here."

When she was finished, her eyes were shining with angry tears. Javert's mouth went slack from shock. Her words held more fire and sincerity than he had expected. So she had thought of him as someone important…the first person who ever did. Suddenly, Aimée saw hurt in his eyes and her anger disappeared.

"Aimée…" Silence choked him.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, casting eyes downwards in embarrassment. "I'm being selfish. It's not fair to you. When do you depart?"

"Possibly tomorrow," he said, studying her intently.

He did not miss the pang of sadness that made her flinch. "I'm going to miss you." Suddenly, she stepped forward and gently wrapped her arms around his shoulders. At this point, she did not care about what was right or what was inappropriate. All she knew was that someone important to her was leaving and she needed as much comfort as possible in the short time they had.

Javert stood shocks still again, feeling as if her touch was turning him to stone.

_You need to comfort her now,_ he told himself, _she doesn't deserve stillness._

Then, softly, tentatively, he looped his arms around her. When he felt her shake with a heavy breath, he tightened his grip, holding her close and trying to make her understand that harming her was his biggest fear on this earth. She buried her face into his shoulder and he felt her hair tickle the side of his face. Aimée felt the stubble of his jaw scratch against her temple.  
"Be safe," she told him.

His voice was lost then. The overwhelming feeling of this caring warmth followed by Aimée's words had thrown him into shock. No one had ever worried over him before, had never pleaded with him to stay safe. Javert now knew what it was like to have a friend, to have someone that didn't look at him in fear or distaste. He realized that he was leaving the one person on this earth that bothered to give a damn about him.

_Leaving her here all alone._

The realization hit him like a train, and Javert's arms tightened around her once more. He reached up and placed a hand behind her head. "I will," he told her, patting her hair. "I will be safe. And so will you. You are resilient now. Your father, Anton, they cannot hurt you. You're stronger than they are."

Aimée lifted her head as she heard his quiet words, low as a rumble in his chest. She smiled, against all odds. "Thank you."

They broke apart and Javert's arms hung in the empty air for a moment, already missing the warmth. Regaining his composure, he let them fall back to his sides. Her eyes were still pleading with him silently, but she had accepted his leaving. His heart began to crack as he noticed how small she looked, her shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around herself for protection.

"I'll write," she said hopefully.

"Whenever I get the chance, I will respond," he said evenly.

She smiled at him, "I don't want my only memories of you to just be your frowning face. Do you even know how to smile?" Aimée reached out and took hold of his hand gently again.

Javert looked down, curled his fingers around hers, and looked up into those eyes that looked like the roiling ocean. He heaved a sad sigh and gave her a rueful smile, more genuine than anything that had ever graced his lips before.

Squeezing his hand, she shook her head. "That's it? Well, I guess I can settle for that." His smile widened at her sarcastic remark and her thumb gently running along his knuckles.

"That's better."

"Are you going to be alright?" Javert asked. His stormy green eyes watched her carefully.

She paused and hung her head. "Honestly, I don't know. I think I'll be fine…but I'm not sure. I'll have Anna…and hopefully Anton will leave soon."

Her words were so quiet, Javert had to fight of the urge to sweep her up and bring her to Paris with him. Then he would be able to protect her and make sure she was safe. The cruelties of the world would not find her there.

"I'll see you tomorrow before you leave," he said, snapping Javert back to attention.

"I don't know when I'll go," he said as Ombre shifted his weight from hoof to hoof.

"Well…if I'm not there will you at least stop by to say goodbye?" she pleaded, giving his hand another warm squeeze.

Javert swallowed, "Alright."

"Good."

The two newfound friends broke apart their grip and Javert pulled himself into the saddle. They gave each other the look of a heavy conversation and Javert's jaw clenched as he turned and rode off into the long night, leaving Aimée standing alone in the dark silence that swelled.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Hey guys! sorry for the long wait, i've been out of town, but here we go again!**_

XIII: See You in my Dreams

Aimée's eyes bore into her ceiling without mercy. It was long past the party and late into the night…or maybe it was early in the morning? She was unsure. Her hair was heavily coiled in a braid that hung down over her shoulder and stray hairs tickled her face like the fingertips of ghosts. She sniffed and noticed how low the oil in her bedside lamp was. Aimée turned onto her side, smothered the flame, and flopped back against her pillows in the darkness. Her mind was on Javert. Every time she tried to sleep, she would see his green eyes boring in to her, his deep voice telling her that he was leaving. The initial stinging shock of his words had died away, and now Aimée only felt dull hurt and melancholy.

Javert's arms were warm and strong when he hugged her that night. She could still smell the scent of his uniform as she breathed, smoke from a fireplace and musk that she had never smelled before, nothing unpleasant. Actually…as she remembered it in the darkness of her room, she admitted that he had smelled good. He felt solid under her arms, she mused, powerful. Aimée decided she liked that.

Holding her hand up in the darkness, Aimée flexed her fingers, imagining the feel of Javert's own hand in her grasp. His palm had felt just like she had imagined it…rough but warm, the fingers thick and stiff. Her hand clenched again, as if she was holding on to him, but her fingers only curled into a fist, alone in the dark. What would those big hands feel like, cradling her face, his thumb tracing over her cheek?

Aimée sighed and pressed her hand against her forehead in frustration. Why was she thinking of him like this?

Frustrated, Aimée rolled over on her stomach, hugging the pillow underneath her chin. She heard his low rumbling murmur in her memories.

"_Are you going to be alright?" _

The amount of concern in his voice made her shiver, even now hours later. She held on to those stormy green eyes in her mind, seeing them along with his straight nose and bristled jaw. Aimée had admitted to herself that he was handsome, regardless of the uniform that fit his powerful frame well enough. His strong jaw and furrowed brows made her stomach flutter in the darkness, and she imagined herself reaching up and tracing the worry away with her fingertips. She wondered what it would be like to trace her fingers over his eyebrows, trail them down his cheek, cradle his face in her palms. She wondered what the puff of his breath would feel like across her forehead as she pressed herself close to him. She wondered what his rough hand would feel like pressed against her waist….

Aimée felt an embarrassed, ashamed blush flush her neck and cheeks. She pressed her hands to her temples to try and drive the silly, girlish images away so she could get some sleep. Lord, she held his hand once and he returned a comforting hug and she lost her mind!  
_Stop acting like an infatuated child, _Aimée scolded herself, burying her face in her pillow, _there was nothing romantic. He doesn't think of you like that. He's so much older. You just admitted that you were friends. Why are you doing this to yourself?_

Groaning in her pillow, Aimée realized that it was going to continue to be a long, awkward night.

* * *

Javert's posture slouched from exhaustion as he sat in his saddle. His butt had gone numb, and he worried that his legs would cramp the second he tried to dismount. He had let Ombre just wander where he wanted, only lightly tugging on the reins every now and then when the horse stopped to sniff at a plant or stick his muzzle in the fountain. Javert only had three or four more hours until sunrise…then his last patrol would be over.

His mind had dangerously wandered as he sat on his horse. The man was still somewhat in shock of the boldness of Aimée at the mayor's home. First, the tentativeness of her fingers as they curled around his, followed by the strong clinging of her arms wrapped around his shoulders. And, to his own surprise, he found himself embracing her back. She felt so small in Javert's arms, so broken and scared. The puff of lilacs and vanilla filled his senses and nearly dizzied him as they held each other. Javert had to stop himself from closing his eyes and deeply inhaling.

Much to his own disgust with himself, he realized that he had wanted to keep her there in his arms, to hold on to her until the world crumbled around them. She was so small and so perfect as she was pressed up against him. Aimée's hair was like silk as it slid over his palm when he had gently patted her head. Javert sighed as he imagined what it would be like to hold a hand to her lean waist or to trail his fingers along the smooth curve of her neck and shoulder. He wanted to feel the smooth skin of her collarbone gently glide across his fingertips.

_Still yourself, you fool,_ he reprimanded to himself, _she is young and she deserves better than you or your imagination. _

Javert downcast his eyes in the dark, ashamed of himself. He thought back to his patrol at hand, back to the job that he would be offered. He searched in his memories for the image of Valjean and saw that he could remember the inmate quite easily. Surely the man would've shaved and cut his hair, but Javert had a good memory for eyes. He would remember Valjean's eyes.

His mind skipped back to Aimée's stormy blue gaze and he heaved a ragged sigh. It was obvious that she would plague his thoughts until the sun rose. He looked around as if searching for someone who could see his imagination or musings. When he was content that everyone was still in their homes, asleep on straw mattresses and wool blankets, he sat back in his saddle and thought openly of the young woman that was haunting him so.

The man admitted that she was beautiful then, more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen in the city of Toulon. Probably even more beautiful that the women of Paris. Javert saw the fire in her eyes, the spark that made her so transfixing to him. Sure, beauty caught his eye easily enough, but what really drew his eyes to her was the blatant fact that the looks she possessed were unknown to her, or, at least, they were unknown when they first met. If Aimée was aware of her transfixing beauty, she ignored it. She dismissed it as easily as waving her hand. Javert smiled as he thought of her stuffing pastries in her mouth on that first night at Beaudet's. Pulling out the all-too-familiar handkerchief from his pocket, Javert rubbed his thumb along the stains, kohl from grief and red crème from happiness. He was expecting to smile as he relived the memories, but instead his brow furrowed and his mouth turned downwards into a harsh frown. For a terrifying moment, he thought he felt light pinpricks in the back of his eyes, but he blinked away the threat of tears as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

_Out of sight…out of mind…_ he thought to himself, adjusting Ombre's reins in his hands.

_You're a fool if you believe that,_ his mind countered. _A hopeless fool. You're also a fool to believe that she even thinks of you more than a protector or a friend. Are you so desperately lonely that you can't acknowledge the difference between kindness and attraction?_

Javert, being a man of honor and courtesy, wondered how he could possibly meet her eyes the next day. How could he manage to look at her after running these rude thoughts though his head? She would surely see right through him…she would find out and then become disgusted with him, with his age, with his appearance.

_ It'd almost be better if you slipped away without her knowing…better for the both of you._

* * *

The day wore on. Aimée had forced herself to stay at her home, too afraid to leave. She knew that the second she left that door, Javert would come to say his goodbyes, and she wouldn't be there. Anna had taken the day off to prep for next week's dinners and Gérard was nowhere to be found. Aimée had found herself alone once more.

She tried reading, but her eyes darted about nervously on the pages and she couldn't absorb anything. Every now and then, Aimée would look up and scan the faces of people passing by her window, their faces solemn in the concentration of everyday tasks. Her heart rose every time she thought she spotted his beard or his eyes, but it fell whenever she realized she was mistaken.

Dusk had fallen, and it brought a new sense of panic along with it. Aimée lit a candle on her table and pressed a palm to her window, watching. The people had thinned, back in their homes to cook, clean, and care for the little ones. Aimée heaved an angry sigh, got up, grabbed a shawl from the hook on the wall, and opened the door of her house. Standing on her front stoop, she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and craned her neck to try and see through the houses.

From the distance, the clop of hooves and the creak of carriage wheels.

With a crashing clarity, she knew.

Aimée knew that the carriage leaving the city was Javert's. She knew that he would not be stopping at her house. She balled up her fists and took off down the alleyways. Aimée was aware of the main road, a wide dirt path used by many travelers. By the sound of it, the carriage was farther away than she could reach in time, heading down the eastern part of town before it turned south to reach the road. Looking over her shoulder, Aimée clutched the shawl tighter around her shoulders and ducked between two houses.

After that, she sprinted. As fast as her legs could carry her, she sprinted. An angry stone mason had to dodge her, his chisel swinging dangerously through the air like a dagger, but luckily it didn't graze her. She ducked, dodged, and even jumped over a few crates before she turned right and continued down a different side street.

Her lungs felt as if they were burning before she finally skidded out onto the main road. She was too late. Aimée's heart dropped as she watched the black carriage rolling away. With a biting anger that quickly blossomed behind her eyes, she bent down, grabbed hold of a sizable rock, and hurled it at the carriage. It pinged against the polished wood. As the anger strengthened, she picked up another stone, bigger than the last, and hurled it with all her might, releasing a scream as she did so. With a satisfying _crash_ it dove through the rear window of the cab, shattering the glass. The horses whinnied and the coach rolled to a stop. The door opened, and Aimée watched in anger as a boot stepped down onto the step. The boot was followed by pressed navy trousers and a handsome military jacket.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" Javert bellowed, holding a hand up to the back of his head.

Aimée was pleased when she realized that her stone had struck him. Yet the sardonic pleasure was short lived as the gravity of his betrayal settled over her.

"What are you doing!" she screamed back, throwing her hands in the air, "you promised!"

The anger didn't leave either of them. Javert stomped closer and Aimée, in a moment of fear, turned and bolted. It was a mistake, her lungs were still on fire and her legs not recovered from her long run. Javert, a fit man, quickly caught up to her and his strong hand encircled her arm. His grip was near painful.

"You struck me with a rock!" he yelled, his voice not quieter now that he was near her. He held up his other hand and she could see dabs of red, "I have glass in my head!" He grabbed on to her other arm, ignoring the red on his fingers, and shook her. "What do you think you're doing?"

Aimée tore free, her eyes hateful in the receding light. "Don't reprimand me like a child, Javert!" She was too angry and frustrated for tears. "Why the hell would you just leave like this? I chased you down alleys just to say goodbye!" She struck him then, an open palm against his cheek. It left her fingers stinging.

"You were just going to leave like everyone else. Ever think how that would affect me? Huh? I bet you didn't even give it a second thought…not one moment to think about poor Aimée Lamenté," her words were seething. "You were just making hot air promises last night in the dark."

The stab of her words struck his heart and made him cringe. Is cheek was red from where she had struck him and he felt hurt, not from the pain of her slap, but from the hate that flowed through her eyes as she glared at him. Her hair was tied messily back, strands framing her face like gold wisps. Her anger fed his. She was a child, a naïve young girl that doubted his decisions.

"I thought this was best," he rumbled, his brow furrowing, "You wouldn't understand. You're just a-"

"Don't you dare call me a child, Javert." Her voice was as low and warning as a tigress's growl. Aimée's finger stabbed at his chest accusingly. "I know that's what was going to come out of your mouth."

He leaned back, momentarily lost for words. Javert looked down at her, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes. "You don't understand anything."

"Well, it's hard to understand a man that sneaks away like a coward without saying goodbye!" she pushed him violently and he stumbled backwards, but stayed standing. "Get out of here! Go! You were so keen on leaving before!" She sniffed.

The very thought of her starting to cry sucked away Javert's anger. Suddenly…he knew she was right. He was a coward. How had he convinced himself that leaving her like this was a good idea? The best choice? She looked so broken and betrayed as she stood in front of him, angry out of resilience.

He stepped towards her, his face suddenly soft.  
"Aimée…I'm sorry," he murmured, trying to raise a hand to her. He wanted to touch her again, feel the warmth of her skin on his hand. He wanted to see her smile and forgive him for his foolish, bullheaded actions.

Aimée smacked it away and pushed him again. "No! Enough of this! I'm sick and tired of being hurt." She stared at him, expecting him to speak again, but Javert was silent, watching her like he just stabbed a dagger though his chest. She huffed at his silence.

"I trusted you to say goodbye, Javert. I guess trust doesn't mean anything. Just gives me stone shoes when I'm trying to swim. You must want me to drown." Her voice was as sour as vinegar.

Javert quickly shook his head, but he couldn't find any words. His mouth opened silently, but he quickly shut it again, realizing that the silence was suffocating.

"Aimée, I'm sorry," he finally said again. "I truly thought this was the best way."

He had said the wrong words. Aimée crossed her arms in front of her and closed her eyes. "Well then…goodbye. Sorry for your inconvenience, _monsieur," _The formality was a well-placed jab to his gut. She turned on her heal and started to retreat back down the road towards town. Javert quickly hurried after her before holding a hand up to tell the coachman to give him a moment.

"Wait," he called. When she ignored Javert's voice, he quickly caught her arm and spun her around.

"Let go of me!" she cried, suddenly beating her fists against his chest anger. "I told you to go!"

Javert was surprised by the amount of force her blows had and quickly struggled to grab hold of her wrists. "Hey," he barked, clenching his jaw in effort as he wrestled with her, "Listen to me. Stop." His grip was strong as he finally got the livid Aimée under control. "I never wanted to hurt you like this. I'm sorry. You're right, I'm a coward…but now we're here. We're here right now." Javert's voice was strong, but softened as he noticed her eyes start to change. The roiling, crashing waves were starting to still, as did the muscles in her lean arms. Javert found himself running his thumbs along the soft inside of her wrist, her skin warm and flushed from anger. He hoped this small action would comfort her.

Aimée searched his face and Javert cocked his head to the side, making sure that their eyes met. She was beautiful in the wake of her fury, cheeks rosy and eyes shining like sapphires. Javert felt himself bite at the inside of his cheek, the images that he had imagined shooting though his mind and making him uncomfortable where he stood. He quickly released her wrists and straightened himself.

The woman in front of him bit her lip. "Why would you leave without telling me?" she asked, her voice quiet and soft as a feather floating over water. "You said you would say goodbye, Javert."

"I know…I know I did," he murmured, lowering his head and staring at the cobblestones beneath their feet. He felt a searching warmth spread across his cheek and looked up to see Aimée with her palm pressed against his face, her eyes sad but forgiving. His cheek still stung slightly from her previous slap.

"Can you tell me why you left?" she decided that she trusted the man's judgment. She had seen him uncomfortable too many times to force a confession from him.

Javert's eyes were pleading as he shook his head no. "Just know that I thought that this was the best way. I can see now that I was wrong."

"You think?"

Javert's knees nearly buckled beneath him when he saw her smile.

_A smile that shines as bright as her anger. A smile for my eyes,_ he thought.

Aimée looked at him as she felt the scruff of his jaw on her hand. Without realizing it, she neared him and her heart beat against her chest. The way he was looking down at her made her body feel light, weightless. Aimée wished she had the ability to read minds…Javert was so complex she would give anything just to know what he was thinking. She quickly began to worry that her actions the night before were unwelcome, that she had acted too boldly. Maybe she repulsed him…maybe he was embarrassed of her…that must be why he left without telling her.

"Javert, just tell me…did you not want to say goodbye because of me? Of something I did?" The words were hard to say.

Shock spread across his face. Javert leaned over her, his voice quiet and warm as his brow furrowed and his head shook. "No…no Aimée…nothing you did. I just…." The words died away. He was not brave enough to admit that he had begun to think of her in ways that were not necessarily appropriate. He couldn't admit that he was struck by her beauty, by her resilience. Couldn't admit that a warmth he loved spread over him every time he thought of her or saw her face.

"No," he finally said again, ending her question.

When she embraced him, he sighed against her hair and allowed himself a fleeting inhale of lilacs and vanilla. She was so warm against his chest that he couldn't help but wrap his own arms around her in a kind of desperation that he feared. A kind of desperation that lumped in his throat and made it hard to breathe, hard to choke back tears.

"Goodbye," she murmured close to his ear.

Javert felt his arms grow tighter around her waist, his large hands pressing against her back. Javert clung to her not out or romantic interests or friendship, but of pure, debilitating need. He needed to show her that his worst fear was to harm her and his greatest hope was to make her smile. He needed her to stay safe and happy, needed her to find some man to take care of her, to take her out of this town that did nothing but harm her.

_You also need her in your loneliness,_ Javert's thoughts said, _keep the demons at bay. _

The idea of how much this woman had changed him when she had crashed so violently into his life had frozen him to the spot, holding her as close as he could before she disappeared behind the carriage. He felt her hand reach behind his head and rest at the back of his neck. Comfort followed her fingertips, as if she was trying to still him with touch.

"Goodbye," he whispered back, his voice ragged. With an aching heart, his arms loosened around her. She leaned back and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips were as soft as rose petals against his stubble.

"You broke your last promise…but please write," she said as she reached out and clutched his hand in her own, entwining their fingers.

He gave her hand a squeeze and nodded, not trusting his voice. Aimée gave him one last smile, reached up with her free hand, and ran her hand down the side of his face. She unthreaded her fingers from his and stepped back.

"You better go…your coachman doesn't seem to happy."

Javert turned and looked over his shoulder. The driver was leaning back, his arms crossed and a pipe puffing between his lips. "I suppose," he said, turning back to meet Aimée's eyes, but she was already turned and retreating back into Toulon.

The soles of Javert's shoes were frozen to the cobblestones as he watched her go, his eyes lingering on her blonde hair and slender neck that led to broad shoulders. He would give his soul to the devil himself just to see her look over her shoulder at him…one last glimpse of roiling ocean before he left her. Much to his sadness, she did not look back as she walked away. Soon, she had disappeared from his view and Javert opened his mouth and released a weary sigh before looking up to the sky. He imagined the air around him smelling like lilac and vanilla as he made his way back to the carriage.

Twenty minutes later, the city of Toulon was completely gone when he looked behind him though the shattered glass window of the coach.


	14. Chapter 14

XIV: The Bishop

"We're moving," Gérard said as September neared its end and October was starting to begin. Summer had ended uneventfully after Javert's departure. Aimée had grown busy studying. She picked up any books she could and read them cover to cover, even writing down certain topics that interested her in order to branch off once she exhausted a subject. She had grown very fond of reading about travels in Africa and the Mediterranean, picturing Javert clinging to the ropes of a tossing ship or walking through bazaars filled with spice powder.

"What?" she asked as she looked up from a book about the ancient Romans. Her quill hovered over a scrap of parchment, the word _Caesar _scrawled out in her loopy, slanted hand.

"I said we're leaving Toulon," her father repeated as he sat down next to her at the table. Anna was out shopping for dinner.

Aimée sat back in her chair after setting the quill down on the table, ignoring the drip of ink that soaked into the wood. "Why? When?"

"I'm being hired by an up and coming businessman in Montreuil. He needs a book man as well as a financial guide." Gérard clapped his hands together as he explained, suddenly excited. "Isn't that exciting?"

Aimée tried her best to smile, "Yes…very exciting…what's Montreuil like?"

"I don't know…I'm assuming it's larger than Toulon, this man is offering to pay me triple than what I make here, even working for Beaudet."

His eyes flashed like coins and he blinked. "We'll leave after Christmas, but I'll be traveling to Montreuil to find a house and start getting books in order."

Christmas…that was only a few months from now. Aimée was already digging out a large piece of parchment to start writing a letter. "What's the business man's name?" she asked, trying to make the question appear casual.

"Monpedite. Arthur Monpedite," Gérard said as he stood up from the table and swung his coat over his shoulder. He didn't notice Aimée scribbling down the man's name. "He's in his twenties I think, surprisingly young for a businessman." He turned and smiled at Aimée in a way that she didn't like. "Who knows…maybe he's a bachelor."

Gérard quickly left before Aimée could respond. She stood from the table, gathered up her parchment, quill, and ink in her arms and quickly climbed the stairs. Once safely in her room, she closed the door and swung open the windows, relishing the early autumn crispness that hung in the air. Kneeling by her bedside, she pulled out a small wooden box and opened it gently. Inside were a bundle of letters, her name and address scrawled out in a slanted font, the corners of letters pointed and the pen flourishing on certain loops and lines. Javert's handwriting was surprisingly neat.

Aimée had received her first letter only about a week after he had left. Javert didn't speak about the fight they had had before he left, but instead of trivial things. He made sure he had included his new address and news on his promotion. Javert even took the time to tell Aimée what he thought of the people of Paris. Ever watchful, he enjoyed studying people, and secretly delighted in sharing his findings with his young friends. Aimée was unaware of just how much her letters kept his loneliness at bay.

Aimée's heart lifted every time she saw her name scrawled across an envelope. She had worried that he wouldn't write at first. Doubt clouded her that first week before Anna had handed her the letter.

Now as they grew used to writing, Javert grew comfortable enough just to send a curt message when he couldn't afford to write a wordy letter. Aimée pulled out the most recent note scrawled on a scrap of paper and read the words again.

_**Aimée, **_

_** Caught wind of Valjean traveling a road in the country. Will be heading out to follow shortly. Letters will be scarce. I will write when I return. **_

_** Hope you are well and safe and happy, **_

_** Javert**_

She had smiled when she first read it, noticing how very like him it was. Short, courteous, and to the point. However, he always ended his letters in the same way: Well and safe and happy. Aimée was starting to believe that the man was a creature of habit. She liked that, made him special.

Dipping the tip of her quill into the ink, she spread out her parchment on the floor and started to write, biting her bottom lip gently as the words etched their way across the paper.

_**Javert, **_

_** Father says we will be leaving Toulon after Christmas, he has a new job offer. An up an coming business man has hired him for a financial advisor, or something like that. I can never understand his work. The man's name is Arthur Monpedite, I was wondering if you knew him. **_

_** You will no doubt be overjoyed to hear that Anton has finally left Toulon. He was traveling to Paris next, so maybe you'll meet him. If you do, please hit him as hard as you can. He has been prowling the streets here and has come up with quite the notorious reputation already. Beaudet finally caught enough sense to send him home. **_

_** Speaking of Beaudet…the man has had another party. One for no reason. I went for a while, but soon grew bored. I had no one to talk to. Thanks for leaving me alone in a room full of military jackets and snooty women, Javert. I like to remember the fireworks that we saw, those were fantastic! **_

_** I've been reading more and more, almost running out of books…now I'm studying the Romans. Maybe I'll get a chance to show you what I've learned. I've been thinking about learning Latin, but it seems so harsh and complicated. You seem like a man who would know Latin. **_

_** I wish you the best of luck in finding the convict. When you do I shall throw you a massive party in congratulations and bake you a cake bigger than a table! **_

_** Staying safe, but missing my friend, **_

_** Aimée**_

"There, that should do it," she muttered to herself as she picked the letter up and blew gently on the slick ink She reached underneath Javert's letters and pulled out a fresh envelope and wax stick. Holding the wax over a candle, she waited until it softened. Folding the letter and stuffing in inside the envelope, Aimée drizzled the wax and pressed a stamp to seal it, a little mockingbird clutching an olive branch. Her mother had always loved birds.

Once the wax cooled, she flipped the envelope over and quickly wrote down Javert's address, already memorized perfectly in her mind.

The downstairs door opened and shut and Anna's voice called up to her. "I'm back, is chicken good enough for dinner tonight?"

"Yes," Aimée called down as she tucked her letters and writing supplies back underneath her bed. Getting up, she listened as her floorboards creaked in protest before she left her room and quickly descended the stairs.

A plump chicken was sitting on the kitchen table, the skin pink and loose from a recent plucking. Anna was shoving the spit through it and covering it with herbs before she moved it to the roasting fire. Then she set to work peeling potatoes with a sharp little knife. Anna had aged in those few months, her eyes slightly tired from the amount of work she had taken on for the Lamenté's. Gérard had noticed and felt slightly guilty, so he had given her Sundays off. Amazingly, that one day would seem to give the young maid the energy to continue her work. Yet, as tired as she seemed, she was never short or unhappy. She had been adopted into the family as easily as a duck floats in water.

"If I peel potatoes for you, could you send this letter?" Aimée said, holding it out to Anna as the dark brown peel was skinned away to reveal the white starchy center.

Anna looked over the pile before she sighed and nodded. "Hurry up though, that chicken will take a while to cook. Keep rotating it while I'm gone too," she added as she untied her apron and handed over her paring knife. Aimée quickly tied the fabric over her own dress and set to work, not peeling as fast as Anna had, but still efficiently.

When the housemaid returned, she was surprised to see all of the potatoes cleaned and scrubbed and sitting in a pot of water over in the corner of the cooking hearth, away from the roasting chicken.

"Did you send it?" Aimée asked eagerly from her new spot in the living room, curled up on the armchair with a book in her lap.

Anna smiled as she removed the towel from the bread dough to check how high it had risen. It had blossomed well and she leaned over and put it in the oven. "Yes, I sent your precious letter…again to that Javert fellow?"

Aimée blushed, although she didn't quite know why she had. They were only friends sending letters about their day.

"When are you two going to get married?" Anna teased as she started to wipe the kitchen table with a rag. She had some time while the food was cooking and she hadn't pestered her dear little Aimée in quite some time.

"What?" Aimée asked, abashed at her words.

"He's quite a bit older, but then again it's not unheard of. Handsome in that uniform, he is." Anna filled the tea kettle up with water and nestled it over the stovetop. "You want tea?"

Stop it! That's ridiculous. And tea before supper?"

"I won't tell if you won't." Anna smiled as she pulled out a little flask from the waist of her petticoat. "Little shot of brandy won't put you off your supper."

Aimée wasn't a virgin to alcohol, but she was unused to it to be sure. However, she trusted Anna and agreed to have a little shot added to her tea once it was done steeping. They both sat down at the table and pretended to be sisters for a while.

"I'm only half-teasing, Aimée," Anna said, sipping at her hot drink. Aimée decided she liked the biting warmth the brandy added. It was strong enough to shoot down to her toes. "I watch people every day," the servant girl mused, " and every day I see couples. I've seen men look at their wives with distaste, boredom, and unimaginable affection. When I was invited to that dinner, I saw how he looked at you."

Aimée's heart swelled and she stopped mid-sip, setting her teacup down on the platter and watching Anna intently. That night, the night of her mother's funeral, was not a fond one. Aimée barely remembered anything at all…she was so numb that night. Anna paused for a moment, reminiscing and drinking and Aimée wanted to shake her to get her to continue.

"I saw the way he looked at you, and it wasn't like anything I'd seen before. It actually gave me chills, Miss, as I sat there and watched you both."

Aimée found herself leaning forward. "What do you mean?"

Anna grew thoughtful as she propped her chin up with her hand, her elbow resting on the table. "It was like you were the only thing he could bare to look at…the only thing he could see." Anna got up and grabbed the tea kettle and added more to her cup. She refilled Aimée's too, and added a dollop of the sweet-smelling brandy. Her head was shaking as she sat back down and traced her finger along the edge of a swirled knot in the wood.

"He was absorbed in you, Aimée. I mean, he would glance around to Beaudet or your father, but it was like he didn't care about them, he couldn't see them, eyes glazed over, you know. But the second he looked at you, sharp as glass. I can usually tell what some people feel by the looks in their eyes, but his were filled with so many things. A worry, a kind of sadness, but also happiness and light, but only when he looked at you."

Aimée felt like if she was holding on to her cup, it would've slipped from her fingers and shattered to the ground.

Anna smiled and met her friend's eyes. "He cares something for you, Miss, and as I said before, there are worse looking people in the world. He's strong looking, isn't he? All broad shoulders and strong jaw. If you don't marry him, I will!" The maid's laughter was high and happy and warm.

Aimée laughed her shocked chills away, Anna's words resonating an unknown hope deep within her chest.

Javert's horse stomped a hoof on a cobblestone, snorting and tossing against the reins. Beaudet had given away Ombre as a permanent gift and the coachman had even hitched the horse up to the carriage on their departure, the dark animal pulling better than the other carriage horses. Javert had grown to like the beast; it's strong, slightly stocky legs and short muzzle. Ombre was slightly smaller than the average mount, yet stronger and enduring.

And it had shown. The newly promoted Inspector Javert and a group of three other officers were climbing high into the foothills of the French mountains searching for a small village. The footing was rocky and slow-going and the other horses grew tired quickly, as did the other officers, used to nighttime patrols only around the Paris streets. Javert, however, was as strong as stone and Ombre had plodded onwards, leaving the others miles behind the road. The climb had taken a while, so stars were already shining in the mountain sky by the time the village came into view.

So he was going about his investigation alone.

Javert was standing outside an inn. His lip curled as he heard the bawdy laughter of drunks and the tapping of mugs on wood. Swinging his leg over Ombre's saddle, he dismounted and stood for a moment as the blood returned to his feet, pins and needles pricking at his toes. Adjusting the collar that hugged his neck, he strode in.

The inn was busy, men crowded around a rough-sawn bar, their faces red and lips glistening. Their fingers shone with the grease of roasted meat and the scared little bones of a chicken sat between their flagons.

The barkeep behind the counter wasn't handsome, nor was he hopelessly ugly, an average man in an average place. When Javert entered the door, he glanced up from the glass he was polishing, noticed his crisp uniform, and hurried over, slinging his rag over a shoulder.

"Can I help you, sir?" the innkeeper asked, his beady eyes scuttling over Javert's hat and badge. "Inspector?"

"Are you the owner of this establishment?" Javert asked, removing his wide hat and settling it under his arm.

"Yes."

"I'm looking for a man. A convict. He would be a few inches taller than I am, a heavy beard, shaved head. His name is Jean Valjean."

Javert's eyes brightened when the man nodded.

"Yeah, he stumbled in here maybe a month or so ago. Kept sitting by my fire, wouldn't give me his papers when I asked. So I told him to get out. Looked like he was heading towards the church when he left my door."

"Where is this church?"

"Other end of the town. Little place. Can't miss it, only place the road will lead. The bishop is a night owl, he should still be up."

Javert nodded and thanked the innkeeper, but politely declined the man's invitation for a meal and a drink. "I should get going," he had said before he turned and left.

Ombre's hoof beats were loud in the quiet hilltop village. The church was tiny and ramshackle, once beautiful for its small size, but now crumbled into a little house of worship. The graveyard was crumbling stone walls and skinny wooden crosses. Sprouts of unruly grass sprung between the stone of the walkway.

Javert's knocks boomed against the wood door and filled the night.

The man who answered was a smiling bishop in maybe his sixties. White hair, jowls, and eyes that glinted with a secret youth.

"Hello, my brother, welcome. Are you searching for a place to stay? We have warm beds, warm food, and cool wine…"

Javert held up a hand cutting the priest short.

"No thank you, Father, I am not staying for long. I've come to ask if you remember meeting a man, a convict, by the name of Jean Valjean."

The bishop was a clever man, Javert knew, cleverer than any normal man of faith, but he didn't hide the flash of recognition in his aged eyes. Or, perhaps he had, but Javert was used to looking in the eyes of liars.

"I have not seen any convicts in my house or church," the bishop said. After a moment, he thought and added, "Only men and weary travelers."

Javert started to grow angry with the priest. He knew that the man was choosing his words too carefully for them to be truthful.

"Any travelers recently? Within a month or two?"

The bishop shook his head, "Many people come to me when in need and I've grown to be an old man. My memory does not serve me like it used to, I'm afraid."

"The police around this village told me that they saw a man leaving this church with a bag full of silver, were you robbed?"

"No, God does not favor those with trivial riches, my dear brother," the priest said as he started to retreat farther back into the church. "God bless you and your search, Inspector."

The door was blocked by Javert's strong arm. "Father, I am a man that respects God as well as fears Him," he said lowly, leaning forward and smelling the candlewax that filled the church, "why protect a criminal?"

"Because we are all criminals," the bishop replied coolly, "And where would we be if there was not someone who would treat us differently than what hides inside? We would all be in damnation."

Javert's eyes darkened.

"I have seen the man you are looking for, I'll tell you that much, Inspector," the bishop continued, calmly grabbing a hold of Javert's arm and removing it from his door. "But I would plead you end your chase. I have seen Valjean as he was touched by the spirit of our Lord. He is no longer a criminal."

"Men do not change," Javert said, stepping back away from the door and clasping his hands behind his back.

"Then you're life will be dust," the bishop said, raising his hand and marking a cross in the air, "I hope you reconsider for the sake of your happiness." The door thumped solidly in Javert's face as the priest shut it.

Craning his neck upwards, Javert could make out the silhouette of the cross panned out against the stars. _A man of the Lord should not hide a fugitive or keep information from the law…_ Javert thought bitterly, adjusting his riding gloves and turning on his heel to stand by Ombre. He pressed his hand against the horse's strong neck and heard distant clopping of horses. He turned to see his other men, the one at the front holding a lantern.

"Sorry we fell behind, sir, that horse of yours is quite the worker," the officer with the lantern said, a mustached gentleman by the name of LaPeir. LaPeir lowered his lantern to look at Javert's hard face. He dismounted, as did the other two.

"Instructions, sir?" the officer to LaPeir's left asked. He had sandy blonde hair that was cropped close to his head under his hat. Once a championship boxer on the Parisian streets, he was strong and burly, with a name to match. Officer Mattox.

"Search the place." Javert said, placing a hand over the flint pistol that sat at his hip. "It's obvious that the man here is a false priest. He has information about Valjean, but refuses to share it."

"A bishop is obstructing justice?" asked the third man, a chestnut-headed tall young man named Variees.

"Bishop is a strong word for him. Go. I said search the place," Javert ordered coldly. Mattox and LaPeir hurried forward, glad to take advantage of their authority, but Variees hesitated when he saw the burly ex-boxer open the door with his boot, the wood splintering.

"I suggest you join your fellow officers, Variees. You're a good man, I'd hate to sign you to the gallows for insubordination," Javert growled. The man was lost in his own power.

With a sickly paling of his skin, Variees quickly followed the shouting of the other men. A crash sounded from within and Javert heard the irate yelling of the bishop as he swung himself onto Ombre's back and watched the shadows glance across the clouded windows. His face was as cold as ice covered stone. Minutes later, the priest had hurried out, his once mischievous eyes burning like the fires of the hell he preached against.

"You're mad!" he yelled, waving his hands into the night air, "How dare you desecrate the house of the Lord like this?"

"I am not ruining nor stealing anything, Father," Javert replied unfeelingly, "I'm having my men search. If you're words are true, then you have nothing to worry about and we'll be finished soon."

"You're a monster in your own power, Inspector!" the bishop raged, Javert's words doing nothing to calm him. "Have you forgotten that a man of the law is supposed to protect the citizens, not accuse them?"

Javert's eyes darkened, yet his voice was still even. "I do not tell you what it means to be a priest, and you do not tell me what it means to be the law."

The bishop started to shake in anger. Two nuns hurried outside and stood by the door, staring at the church with their hands to their faces. One crossed herself and the other looked around, trying to see through the opaque windows.

"You will regret this," the bishop said darkly.

"A Father threatening? Perhaps you don't belong in the House of God after all," Javert responded, turning and looking down at the priest.

"I am comfortable in my faith and my actions in the eyes of the Lord. I am not threatening you, just warning you that you should be cautious, Inspector. God does not look upon corrupt pride well."

Javert's men filed out of the church empty handed. Javert scowled as they apologized to the nuns and swung themselves up onto their horses.

"Seems like I had nothing to hide after all," the bishop said, turning from the church to look at Javert's green eyes. He brought his two fingers up and crossed Javert. "God bless."

Inspector Javert yanked hard on Ombre's reigns and galloped off into the night, his men turning and following quickly. The priest watched them go before he turned and ushered the nuns back inside.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Hey guys! Long chapter for you all! We're starting to see the other characters and their backstories, hope you enjoy it! I love hearing from you guys, so reviews are always welcome~**_

XV: Arthur Monpedite

When Javert had returned to his home in Paris nearly two days later, his maid had left a letter on the desk in his study. His tired eyes brightened as he read his name written in Aimée's elegant, looping hand. He picked up his letter opener, slit the envelope open, and unfolded the letter. She had written a longer one this time, he mused, looking over the words. Before reading, Javert got up and gently closed his door. His maid would know not to disturb him then.

The first day he had arrived in Paris, he was told that his housing was already paid for, housing right next to the jail and courthouse. The house also came with a maid, a portly middle-aged woman by the name of Carlette, her hair always curled in a bun and, much to Javert's happiness, she was quiet and secluded, mostly staying in the kitchen to cook. Carlette was easy to avoid, and Javert tried his best to do just that. Not out of aloofness, but out of pure seclusion. He realized that he had no idea how to act towards someone under his class. So, he just tried his best to let Carlette do her work before she left at exactly six o'clock.

Once he was settled back into his chair, he read Aimée's words, not resisting as her voice shined through her writing. He twirled his letter opener between his fingers as he read, making it seem as if he was spinning a dagger in his hand. Javert felt his eyebrows furrow together as he read that she would be leaving for her father's business. He was unhappy to hear that Gérard's love of finance was still placed above his daughter's comfort. However, he felt his tired muscles relax as he read that Anton was finally gone. Hopefully Beaudet was finally catching some sense and seeing how foolish it was for him to be covering that boy's evils with some flashing coins.

Monpedite…he did not know anyone by the name of Monpedite….

Javert hoped it was a good sign, a man by that name had not gone through the jail anytime soon, and he wasn't in Paris. As much as Javert knew that Aimée would love to live in the bustling city, he couldn't bear the thought of her sharing the streets with the men he looked at every day. If he thought that Toulon was harsh to Aimée Lamenté, Paris would chew her up and spit her out in the gutter with the pleading urchins.

No places for blonde hair and a smile trying to sell flowers.

Aimée had also said that she was running out of books…

A smile graced his lips as Javert leaned over and dug through one of the draws of his big oak desk. He pulled out a small brass key, the key to his old home in Toulon. He hadn't had the chance to move out his old belongings or even to sell the home; he was still paying for the house to sit emptily.

Unfolding a piece of paper, Javert started to write.

_**Finally back from the mountains…still no sign of Valjean. Do not know when I'll travel next. I would write more, but I need sleep and work early in the morning. It's a shame that you're running out of books. Enclosed is the key to my old house. I still have many books there. Feel free to go and take what you want, although I cannot say how interesting they are. Sometime soon I hope to send a proper letter, but for now this will have to do. **_

_**Hope you are well and safe and happy, **_

_**Javert**_

_**P.S. I do not know anyone by the name of Monpedite.**_

He sealed the letter with red wax and the eagle from his Inspector's ring. Checking to make sure the ring was not stuck with wax, Javert scooped up Aimée's letter and retreated out of his study to the room down the hall. He had managed to pack up the picture he was so fond of, the lion and bull, along with the large chest that held his memories. Lifting the heavy lid, he revealed a small wicker basket that was nearly overflowing with letters. The basket sat on a blanket that covered the other objects that were housed in the trunk, but he hadn't looked under that blanket in some time. Next to the basket sat a little, dried yellow daffodil. Placing her most recent letter atop all the others, Javert reached into his pocket, felt the silk of his handkerchief, and closed the lid.

His bed looked inviting, beckoning him with clean, pressed linens and soft blankets over a down mattress. Sitting on the edge of the large four-poster, he leaned back, sinking comfortably into the padding. Javert released a sigh as he clasped his hands over his chest and dared to close his eyes for a moment, trying to get the stress of the mountain journey to melt away from the tight muscles of his shoulders and back.

The bishop had unnerved him. Javert had convinced himself that a search of the property was justified and correct, but a nagging sliver of guilt itched at the back of his throat, making him want to grimace as he thought about it. The look in the priest's eyes were as unsettling as lightning over water and his words stung Javert's ears and created an angry heat in his gut.

Pulling out the handkerchief, he clung to it with both hands over the buttons of his coat. This trinket that he continued to keep hold of reminded him that he was a good man, a man that was out in the world to enforce the law and to keep the citizens safe.

_I need to find him, _Javert thought to himself, tracing his thumb along the silk edging of the hankie. _I need to find Valjean_.

Groaning, he forced his eyes open and sat up from the comforting embrace of his bed. Javert had to eat and bathe before he allowed himself to go to bed, even though he was tempted just to go to bed with a dirty face and empty stomach. Tucking the cloth back into his pocket, Javert grabbed the envelope, quickly addressed it, and brought it downstairs with him. He left it on the designated table in his entryway. Before she left, Carlette scooped it into her basket and mailed it as Javert slept heavily and dreamlessly after his meal.

* * *

After a day of travel, Aimée finally got to peer out of her window to see what Montreuil was like. She had decided to go with her father and meet Arthur Monpedite and see what the town was like. It was a small city, maybe about the size of Toulon, but it was filled with construction. Men crowded around thick wood beams and plastered skeletons of buildings. Huge Clydesdales sat tied to sleds stacked with bricks and logs, their thick harnesses making their heads droop and snort uncomfortably.

"I've never seen such a busy place," Aimée said as she stepped away from the carriage into the streets. The city was filled with the barnyard odor of hay, manure, and sweat. Angry shouts from builders and carpenters cut through the streets and Aimée adjusted the traveling bonnet that sat high on her head. She kept her hand on her skirts, hoisting the hemline free of any muck that clung to the cobblestones.

"It's growing," Gérard said, giving his daughter his arm but setting out at an uncomfortable pace. "Monpedite's factory has attracted many potential investors as well as workers." His brown top hat matched the coat he was wearing that crisp, fall day.

"They have to build all new houses?" Aimée asked, sidestepping a suspicious brown puddle.

"Have to build more, Aimée, Montreuil has to grow, otherwise it'll become overpopulated."

"I see."

Arthur Monpedite's factory was actually still in the process of being built, or at least added on to. It was a brick building, larger and taller than any of the homes or café's around it. The brown walls were in the process of being covered with plaster in order to match all the other buildings that lined the street. The workers that were spreading the surface looked up from their work when she walked by, their arms covered in dried gray up to their elbows.

She felt an uncomfortable itch between her shoulders as she turned her back to them and followed her father into the door of the factory. Inside, Aimée could barely see thought the dust. She smelled the dull scent of clay and sawdust, but she didn't mind it at all. The low, quiet growl of saws on wood and the sharp snap of a hammer on a nail ricocheted around her The door had opened up into a large workroom right off the bat, a wooden staircase in the process of being painted directly to her left. Above was a balcony with a glass door, no doubt Monpedite's office.

The wood creaked pleasantly as father and daughter climbed upwards and knocked at the door. A silhouette stood behind the frosted glass of the office door's window, and the brass knob turned quickly.

Arthur Monpedite was a tall man, one of the tallest men Aimée had ever seen. He actually had to duck his head slightly as he stepped aside to welcome her and her father into the office.

"I'm so glad you arrive without trouble!" Monpedite rumbled, giving Gérard a firm handshake and stooping low to place a polite kiss on Aimée's hand. His eyes were a warm brown, matching his russet hair. "Your daughter is beautiful!"

"Thank you, _Monsieur _Monpedite," Aimée said in the formal way, giving him a small curtsey.

Monpedite revealed two dimples when he smiled. He wore a blue coat with a high necked white shirt underneath with tan trousers tucked into riding boots. His face was young, yet when he smiled his eyes were ghosted with little wrinkles and his teeth were even.

"I'm so glad you agreed to my employment, Gérard," Arthur Monpedite said as he beckoned for them to sit in the two chairs in front of his desk, a dark oak with leather ink mat. Arthur sat down in his own chair, Aimée still having to nearly crane her neck to meet his chocolate eyes. "I can tell that we will be quite successful. I had to leave Paris to find more room, my work was getting too big!" he barked a short laugh.

"I'm happy to work for you, _Monsieur," _Gérard said, giving his best business smile. Aimée noticed that Monpedite did not detour the formality.

"We should be finished with construction by Christmastime," Monpedite said, leaning forward and shuffling through some papers on his desk. He found one stamped with a Parisian seal. "This is a contract I would like for you to sign. It states that your services are to be bound to the Monpedite Rosary Company and you will work a minimum of three years in our finances. Does this seem to work for you?"

Aimée tried to read some of the contract as her father signed with a flourish. So Monpedite had started a rosary company. She found it hard to believe that rosaries had been such a booming business opportunity. However, she was starting to realize that faith equaled profit.

"Splendid," Monpedite said, looking over Gérard's signature and blew on the ink. Aimée noticed the gold and emerald glint of a ring on his right middle finger as he folded the contract and tucked it away into the desk drawer. His office smelled of boot polish. "Now, might I treat you two to lunch? I'm sure you're famished from your travel," Arthur added, standing and grabbing a top hat from the coatrack next to his desk. The man was full of big city courtesy as he stepped out from behind his desk and extended a hand to help Aimée stand. She blushed and took it, her fingers ginger as they felt the coolness of his ring.

Gérard allowed Arthur to escort his daughter out of the factory and into the growing city. Aimée thought Arthur was kind enough, yet she felt uncomfortable and shy as she tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. He towered nearly a full head and shoulders over her and his hat blocked out the sun as he walked. Aimée felt like a small child.

"I think you will really like it here, _mademoiselle_," Monpedite said, casting his attention away from her father momentarily. The home that is being built for you will be near a bookstore, florist, and a café just a few blocks down the road. It's a clean city, little to know riff-raff in this area."

"Sounds nice, _Monsieur _Monpedite_," _his smile was as warm and easy as late-summer sunshine.

"By the time you and your father move, these horses will be gone and most of the houses finished. Construction crews have been working tirelessly day and night. I suppose their contractors are in need of a little coin!" His laughter was strong. Aimée found his chuckle contagious as her lips curled into a smile. Gérard laughed too, but it was the laughter of a man eager to please.

Arthur Monpedite led them to a small little restaurant. They went inside, Arthur holding the door for Aimée and her father. Inside, they were standing in a little teahouse, carved wooden tables and chairs stained to a deep mahogany brown. Servants wearing white aprons approached them and Monpedite ordered tea with biscotti and sausage and cheese. The table was laid with little porcelain bowls holding cinnamon, sugar, and honey. When the waiter brought their tea, he set down a little pitcher of thick cream.

"Normally, I would not waste my time with the Brits, but I will acknowledge they can make a good cup of tea," Monpedite joked as he dropped two cubes of sugar into his cup. The man liked his drink sweet, "When I was in London trying to sell my rosaries, I had some of the English's breakfast tea. I liked it so much I brought a barrel back with me to keep here."

Aimée stirred in some cream and honey, but she thought about the brandy that Anna had added to her drink. She remembered the pleasant biting warmth and lightness that swirled in her head after each sip.

"So, Aimée, your father tells me you're sixteen?" Monpedite asked, snapping her from her memories.

"Um, yes, _monsieur, _I will turn seventeen next month, in November."

"Ah, to be seventeen again," Monpedite said, leaning back in his chair, his long legs sprawled out under the table. "That was almost eight years ago. I'm going to be twenty-six next spring."

"You're barely a grown man," Gérard joked, sipping his tea plainly, "I'd give my hand to be as young and successful as you are."

"Success will come to you, my friend," Monpedite replied, sipping his sweet tea. "I know that the business will flourish here."

"If you don't mind me asking, _monsieur,_ but how did you come to hire my father?" Aimée asked, hoping to become a part of the conversation. By the look on Gérard's face, maybe her question was a little too bold.

Luckily, Monpedite didn't mind, "When I was traveling to this area, I met up with Mayor Beaudet, I had originally had my heart set on Toulon for my factory, but there was no room. Beaudet had suggested I take a look at Montreuil. Then, I asked him if he knew anyone decent with money, considering I'm horrible at accounts. He suggested your father."

Monpedite smiled and bit into a crusty biscotti, wiping the crumbs from his mouth and quickly sipping his tea, "However, I had to suggest a hefty price, Gérard here seemed pretty fond of the mayor's employment."

Gérard's smile was pleasant, yet not sincere. Aimée could tell that his grin did not quite reach his eyes. Monpedite did not notice as he continued talk and snack. Aimée helped herself to a slice of sausage and chunk of cheese, stabbing them both with a little silver fork and eating them together. The peppercorns from the sausage crisped pleasantly as she chewed and the cheese was smooth on her palate. The waiter brought some fresh rolls, still warm from the oven and covered in small sesame seeds. Arthur Monpedite took one and spread butter over it, then sprinkling it in cinnamon.

_Sweet teeth make for kind hearts,_ Aimée heard her mother whisper in her ear. Another one of her little quips.

Slowly, as they ate their lunch, Aimée started to grow comfortable towards Arthur Monpedite. He seemed kind enough, yet strong-willed, ignoring many of her father's small, manipulative tricks. She liked that, liked seeing Gérard slightly stiff and polite towards a man more successful than he.

After lunch, they continued to walk around the city, Monpedite as her guide once again. The fabric of his coat was smooth and tightly knit, the kind of fabric that would bear a high price tag. The sleek beaver of his top hat shone in the autumn sun and his smile was calm and easy as he looked about the town that was being built around his factory. Aimée's head barely bobbed at his shoulder as she listened to the conversation between Monpedite and her father.

"The busiest times are Christmas, Lent, and Easter," Monpedite told Gérard as they turned a corner. Aimée smelled the familiar ocean tang.

"We're near the sea?" she asked, craning her head. Sure enough she could see the spindly tips of masts peek through the far off alleys.

"Yes, Montreuil has a shipyard, quite handy for shipping out our merchandise right away," Monpedite said, looking through the houses where a sliver of blue could be seen, "But I would suggest you stay away from there, _mademoiselle, _a lot of undesirables tend to hover around the docks."

"I was just curious," she murmured. She couldn't help but think of Javert, how he complained to her about the salt that clung to his skin. Aimée felt comforted as she breathed in the hinted brininess of the ocean, felt like she wouldn't be traveling far from home after all.

"You'll stay away from there," Gérard said, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked. He glanced at his daughter out of the corner of his eye and she knew he was making the decision for her.

"Yes, father, of course I will," Aimée said politely as she reached up and touched the side of her bonnet.

Aimée didn't listen for the rest of the way back to the factory. The talk of finances, money, and entrepreneurship bored her almost to death. She wished she was back home, reading a book or gossiping with Anna. But what she really found herself wishing for was to sit and talk with Javert…to hear his low baritone telling her something in the matter-of-fact way he relayed information to her. Aimée wished she had the courage to ask him to visit her, to write down what she really was thinking in a letter instead of the trivial things that didn't matter.

However, she could never bring herself to do that. Aimée clung so desperately to the fact that he would write to her at all, she was fearful that if she wrote the wrong thing he would drop contact with her forever.

_Keep your head. You're acting like a smitten child again. Don't do anything foolish, Aimée, just be happy with what you have. _

"Now, I'm assuming that you two have quite a bit of a drive ahead of you, so I'll let you get going," Monpedite said, giving Aimée's hand a pat when they reached the factory again. Their coach was waiting for them. "Thank you so much for visiting, Gérard, and thank you for introducing your charming daughter." The easy, good-natured smile graced his lips again. " I do think that you will like it here, I'm looking forward to your permanent arrival."

"Thank you, _monsieur,_" Aimée chirped, trained in the song of civility. She gave Arthur Monpedite a curtsey before she climbed into the carriage. The book that she was reading on their ride over to Montreuil was sitting where she had left it on the cushioned bench.

Gérard gave his new boss another firm handshake and climbed into the coach as well. Monpedite was very polite for his young age, never turning his back to his visitors and giving the coachman a wave. With a snap of the reigns, father and daughter were off, swaying to and fro in their carriage towards Toulon.

"Must you keep reading like that, Aimée? It's not ladylike," Gérard grumbled, loosening fabric tie around his neck.

"I like to read," she replied, closing the book around her finger to momentarily mark her place. "You never seemed to mind before."

Gérard huffed and glanced out the window. "That Monpedite is a nice fellow, smart too. Lord, I've never seen anyone so tall in my life."

Aimée watched him, suspicious of where the conversation would be heading. When he didn't continue, she chimed, "Yes, I suppose he was rather tall, wasn't he?"

"You suppose? You were only clinging to his arm the entire afternoon," Gérard's smile was unpleasant.

"He offered it to me, it would've been rude to deny it," Aimée said, scowling, "And besides, that's probably the custom in Paris."

Her father huffed and slouched on his bench, the toes of his shoes pressing up on the wood seat opposite him. "Something's off about him, though," he muttered, thinking to himself. "I can't place it. He's so easy-going…hard to believe that a man became that successful out of kindness."

"What's so hard to believe about that?" Aimée said, "Mother used to say you would get farther with sugar than-"

"I know what your mother used to say," Gérard interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips as he regarded his daughter with an annoyed gaze.

Aimée lapsed into silence.

"I suppose if I suggested you court him, you would cause a massive scene like you had at Beaudet's."

The ocean held in Aimée's eyes started to roil and darken. "I was making a scene?"

"The man saved you from an attack and you begged me not to make a marriage proposal to Beaudet," her father blustered, itching the side of his jaw.

Aimée bit her lip out of anger and opened her book again, "I'm pretty sure it was Officer Javert that saved me, not Anton."

"Yes, yes, the guard…I suppose he was helpful that night."

The lines of her book were blurred as her agitation grew. "Maybe a little more than helpful," she muttered, her voice low.

Gérard, as was his custom, ignored his daughter. He let his head fall back and soon he was snoring, his head swaying form side to side with every rock of the carriage. When he was asleep, Aimée glared at him and thought all the things she was too craven to speak aloud.

_Bastard, trying to wed me off like a business pawn. Already scheming to sell me off to a man that's pretty much a complete stranger to us. _

Aimée hoped with all her heart he was just amusing himself by seeing what her reaction would be like. She hoped he wasn't actually thinking of trying a whole new marriage arrangement. And, if he was, she hoped that Monpedite was far kinder than Anton had been. Aimée started to drift off into her own nap as she already started planning a new letter to send to Javert.

Anna already had dinner on the table when Gérard and his daughter finally arrived back in Toulon. A roast crusted in herbs and garlic sat nestled on top of roasted turnips, onions, and carrots, the vegetables glistening from the fat of the meat. The maid was in the corner of the kitchen, sawing at a fresh loaf of bread with a knife, the thick slices falling into a wicker serving basket.

Even though the smell from dinner was mouthwatering and tempting, Aimée did not feel hungry. She had decided she had enough of her father's company for one day and she only wished to go upstairs to her room and sit alone. She told Anna she wasn't feeling well, placing a hand at her stomach and making an unpleasant face to pass off the lie. Aimée was able to go upstairs without trouble.

She flopped on her bed, her bun digging into the base of her neck uncomfortably, but she ignored it for a while as she tugged at the satin ribbons of her bonnet. Once the stupid thing was wrenched off her head, she started digging in her hair for the pins that secured her bun in place. Lifting her head, she uncoiled her dusty blonde tresses and spread them over her mattress, sighing in the small relief the feeling gave her.

The sunlight that shone through her window was starting to grow warmer as it started to sink towards the horizon, the yellow of the day starting darken into oranges and reds. Aimée craned her neck to try and look out over the city, but gave up and stood when her neck grew sore. Her window unlatched easily and she opened it to the crisp, briny air. Aimée retreated to her bed and grabbed her blanket then her hairbrush from her nightstand. Padding over to the sill again, she climbed up and sat, curled in her blanket. As she began to brush the tangles from her hair, Aimée spotted the fountain that sat towards the center of town. A little smile graced her lips as she remembered the night she snuck out of her home, two bread rolls cradled in her arms. Javert had found her that night, crying and nibbling at her snack. That was probably only the second or third time they had met, it seemed so long ago now.

_The poor man was so awkward,_ Aimée thought as the bristles of her brush started to glide easily through the dusty gold. _But he was kind…concerned. He escorted me home._

Anna's words swam though her head.

_ "It was like you were the only thing he could bare to look at…the only thing he could see."_ The words gave her chills and some sliver of far-fetched hope.

Her smile started to twinge in sadness. Javert was not here, he was in Paris, miles and miles away. She hoped he was happy as she sat on that window sill. A man like him deserved some kind of happiness and success in his career. Who knows, maybe he would even meet a woman, a beautiful woman of the city that possessed elegance and maturity.

_Someone that's not a child like you_, Aimée couldn't help but think as she set her brush down and clutched the blanket closer around her shoulders. She tried to convince herself that she wanted Javert to be happy and successful, but she couldn't ignore the feeling of brooding disappointment.

There was a knock at her door that interrupted her thoughts.

"Come in," she said, turning her head and looking at the door. She hoped it wasn't her father. Luckily, the cautious head that poked thought the threshold was Anna's, her red hair messy from cooking. She was holding a plate and silverware.

"You're eating," she said, without question, "I slaved over this. You'll love it."

Aimée smiled and beckoned her over. The window was large and there was room for Anna to sit across from her and place the plate in between them. Steam from the roasted vegetables curled lazily as it met the cool air. Anna handed Aimée a fork and pulled out her little leather flask.

When Aimée glanced at it reservedly, Anna held up a hand, "Don't worry, it's just wine. I stole some from one of Gérard's bottles." The maid winked, "You seem sad, a little girl like you shouldn't be brooding at her window."

"I'm not a little girl," Aimée scowled, stabbing an orange spear of carrot with the prongs of her fork and popping it into her mouth.

Anna sighed and leaned her head back against the sill and took a sip of wine. "Tell me what's wrong, we have to look after each other." The maid was always blunt with her words, but Aimée was quiet as she picked at her food. She was shy and embarrassed to admit that she had been thinking about Javert.

"Miss, here," Anna said softly, handing the wine to her friend. Aimée never really liked wine but found that it was a sweet white and she was relieved to find she liked it. Handing it back, she clutched the blanket tighter when Anna spoke again. "I know what you're thinking about, Aimée." She smiled.

Aimée looked down and ate a few more bites of her dinner. "I miss him."

"That part is obvious," Anna said, but not unkindly or with sarcasm. She took another sip and screwed the cap of her flask. She set it on the windowsill and reached for Aimée's fork. Taking a piece of the roast, she took a bite and handed the fork back to Aimée. "Wish to speak to me about it?"

Aimée was quiet as she ate. They started handing the fork back and forth, two people sharing a meal. The ginger-haired maid watched the young woman and gave her a sigh.

"You're in love, aren't you?"

Aimée looked up, yet she was calm. "I'm sixteen…I don't think I know what love is."

Anna gave her a smile, "If you're mature enough to admit that, then you are mature enough for love, Aimée."

Aimée found herself blushing.

"I was in love once," Anna said, turning her head and looking out over the sunset-washed Toulon streets.

The sincerity in her voice made Aimée set her fork down and regard her. "You were?"

"Oh, yes, head over heels. In fact, I was almost engaged."

"Tell me about it?" Aimée asked, handing Anna the fork and allowing her to finish up the food on the plate. "Please? I would like to hear."

Anna gave a rueful little smile. "His name was Mattieu and he was a carpenter in the mountain town where I used to live. He was tall, brown hair, strong like an ox, but gentle and kind. He used to bring me flowers." She reopened the flask and took a sip, handing it to Aimée. "I wasn't poor, but I wasn't rich either. My father was a metalworker and my mother a maid, like me. They came from Ireland long before I was born and set up shop out in the mountains, a tiny village with a crumbling church on one end and a market on the other. .

"Anyway, I was walking from the market one day when I tripped in a hole by the road. I fell, muddied my dress, and the loaf of bread I had bought was ruined as it fell in a puddle. Mattieu was also coming from the market that day when he saw me fall. He rushed over and lifted me up. Then he gave me the bread he had bought, fresh out of his bag. I remember he had to walk all the way back into town."

Aimée chuckled when Anna did, picturing the events in her head.

Anna looked up and met her eyes, "I was fifteen then, he nineteen, and I was as sure as day itself that I loved that man. He met me the next day in the market with flowers in his hands and a goofy smile on his face. Mattieu asked me if he could buy me some soup at the inn down the way, so I agreed. After that, he escorted me home and asked my father if he could court me."

"What happened then?"

"My father refused, saying that I was just a mere little girl, too young for courting or fantasies of love. I was heartbroken, cried all night."

Aimée's heart fell a little, sympathetic for her friend.

"But then, I heard a tapping at my window. He had climbed up the wood and plaster wall and snuck into my room. He stayed the night with me…"

"Anna!" Aimée exclaimed as realization smacked her across the face. Her mother had told her about what goes on underneath the sheets behind closed bedroom doors. She was not naïve.

"I was young! I knew no better," Anna said defensively, scowling at Aimée. "It was a mistake anyway, three weeks later, I missed a bleeding and found out I was with child."

The look of horrification that slapped on Aimée's face did not go unnoticed. The maid winced as she sipped and Aimée took the flask, taking a drink as well.

"I was mortified," Anna said, sniffing as she remembered. Her green eyes shone as the sun started to set. "A baby by a fifteen year old, not married, barely even courted…no shame was as large as that."

Aimée couldn't bring herself to witness Anna in her shame. Instead, she watched as the fat from the roast started to solidify in the cool air, going from glistening oil into a white mass.

"I didn't tell my parents…or Mattieu. Instead, I went to the church, a little building on the end of town, just a bishop with a couple nuns. He was a kind old man, I remember his hair was white and his eyes were so full of life, almost like he was a young man.

"Anyway, he let me stay the evening there and he gave me some council after I confessed to him. He told me that one of the Sisters in his care had desperately wished for a child, but couldn't dream of having one because she was barren. After she had found out, she took the oath of faith. The bishop said that if I needed a place to send my child after I gave birth, he would accept it in the church and the Sister would consider it a gift from God to raise it."

By this time, the sun had nearly disappeared behind the horizon. The autumn chill started to grow bolder as it nipped at Aimée's ears and nose. She huddled under her blanket and watched as Anna continued to speak.

"My belly grew and it was harder to hide, so finally I confessed to my parents. They were outraged, threatened to force Mattieu to marry me, but I refused and told them the Bishop's offer. I told them that I would give the child away if they kept quiet and didn't tell Mattieu or anyone else in the village. They agreed, but under one condition, after the birth I had to leave."

"You had to leave?"

"Yes…I had to leave the home, the village, my family. Knowing I had no choice, I agreed."

She sipped more wine, the sweet white filling the two women up with warmth against the past and against the cold.

"I gave birth in that tiny, ramshackle mountain church. They took my baby away without even telling me if it was a strong little boy, or a sweet little girl. My mother said it would be easier that way. After a day of recovery, I packed up what I could, and set off on a little mule, going south. When my money ran out, I sold the mule and became a housemaid."

With one large drink each, they finished off the flask.

"And here I am today," Anna finally finished, looking at the dirty plate. She gathered up the silverware and started to stand.

Aimée stopped her. "I think I might be," she answered. "I think about him all the time."

Anna gave her a smile. "You are as easy to read as a children's book, Miss."


	16. Chapter 16

**_Special thanks to all my reviewers, hope you enjoy!_**

XVI: As Man Turns to Stone

"We've received a complaint, Inspector," the judge said, his squarish hat sitting bulbously atop his head and his wiry spectacles teetering near the bridge of his nose. Javert stood in front of the court, his back straight and hands clasped in front of him. He had made sure that all of his brass was polished and he had Carlette press his uniform so the seams popped out crisply against the fabric.

"I had reason to believe that the priest was harboring a fugitive, or hiding information, sir," Javert replied coolly. He did not shy away from the men of justice who outranked him, high in their wood balcony of the court.

Another judge leaned over and whispered to the speaker. "What made you reach this conclusion?" the speaker asked, clasping his hands and clearing his throat. Javert thought he looked like a turkey, a bald, wrinkly head extending from the black of his robe.

"The man lied. His story did match up to other eye witness accounts that placed the fugitive, Jean Valjean, at his church. This aroused suspicion."

"Did your men break anything or harm anyone?"

"Officer Mattox shattered a glass vase upon entry, but I will gladly pay for the damage done. Besides that, we left the church without any harm. The two Sisters were unhurt, and the bishop was fine, yet he verbally threatened and attacked me."

"A Father of the church?" the judge who had previously whispered asked. He was a fat man, his plump face shining in a thin layer of sweat from his hat and robe.

"Yes, Your Honor," Javert answered. "Yet I took no offense."

"Very well," the speaker piped up, his voice sounding like a mallard's squawk. He scribbled a quill across a sheet of paper, blew on the ink, and passed it down the line. Each judge, nine in all, signed their names. Once the paper was rolled up and sent to the files, the head judge spoke again. "We have reviewed the complaint and pardon you, Inspector Javert, it is obvious to us that you were merely acting as the law enforcement authority that you are. You justified your reasoning to us in a clear way. Thank you for your time." The gavel barked against its wood stop.

Javert gave a curt bow and turned on his heel, marching out of the courtroom. All of this hassle was wasted on a flimsy complaint, Mattox had broken a vase. A vase that had barely cost one franc. How foolish.

"I've wasted so much time," Javert muttered under his breath as he passed under the stone eagle of the Parisian Justice. He turned and walked briskly passed the stone pillars and returned to the jail and his office. Once he closed the door with the frosted glass window, he sat down at his desk and tried to ignore the bawdy shouting of prisoners as they were being escorted past his door and into a holding cell. Javert shook his head as he bent over papers. They were trivial things, complaints of taverns, lost items, feuds over wills.

Javert had found that it was troubling for him to sit still. Thought of Valjean, stealing or sneaking about, made him uneasy and angry. The criminal was out there right now while he sat and signed argument papers! Who knows what Valjean was doing? Javert had been so close at that church…the Father had seen him there. Why protect him?

_I don't understand, _Javert kept thinking. _I don't understand how a man like Valjean can be defended._

He leaned back in his chair and did his best to ignore his paperwork. Extending his legs, he crossed them at his ankles and entwined his fingers over his chest, the wool of his jacket scratchy on his palms.

_I have to learn to think like a criminal, _he thought as he compared his thumbs. _Think like filth…like scum and thieves. _At one point, when he was a mere boy, he knew exactly how to think like them. How to duck through alleyways and how to steal food to keep himself alive. He had known how to avoid the law, how to cling to the shadows and wear them like a new coat.

But that had been a very long time ago.

Deciding that he would rather be out on patrol, Javert quickly scrawled his name on his stack of papers, not even bothering to see who he cursed or who he blessed. Once the shine of the last signature had dried away, he stacked up his papers and left his office, setting the forms on the desk of the jail's secretary, a man who could never seem to stay awake.

Ombre tossed his head and snorted when Javert threw himself up into the saddle. Pulling on the reigns and turning the horse down the road, he kicked him into a trot. Javert bounced in the saddle so he didn't jumble about as the horse moved. People stayed clear from his way, not because he was well known, but because his presence was intimidating. Those who looked at him quickly averted their eyes. Javert found himself missing what a smile looked like.

He quickly regretted it as images of Aimée's wide grin flooded themselves behind his eyes.

"Dammit, Javert," he growled, looking around and trying to find something else to look at.

After an entire afternoon of riding the city, Javert returned home with sore legs. He brought Ombre to the wide ally that sat between his home and the jailhouse. In this alley sat the stables. Horses nickered and snorted at him when he passed, leading Ombre gently by the reigns. The musty smell of hay and manure clung to him greedily, but he found that he didn't think it was unpleasant. He ignored the stable boy that offered to unsaddle his horse.

Ombre's stall was the last one on the right side and Javert opened up the gate and led the horse inside. The boy had lain down new straw and it crackled quietly beneath his boots. Javert unhooked the leather straps of Ombre's reigns and removed the bit from the horse's mouth. Ombre flapped his dark lips once the metal and straps were taken away from his face. Javert reached into the feed bin and held out a handful of grain. As Ombre snacked, he ran his hand down the horse's strong muzzle, feeling when his short hair was replaced by the velvet of his nose and mouth. Javert smiled as Ombre blinked his dark, shining eyes.

Brushing the traces of grain away from his hands, Javert set to work unhitching the saddle, a heavy dark thing fashioned of leather and silver studs. The horse heaved a sigh as the wide strap around his middle was loosened and fell away. With a grunt, Javert removed the saddle and under cloth, damp from the horse's sweat. He set the saddle on the stand and draped the cloth over it so it could dry out properly. Then, he ran the soft bristled brush all over Ombre's body, through his thick mane, across his wide back, and down his powerful legs. Finished, Javert gave his horse one last friendly pat on the shoulder, and left the stall.

"See to it that the farrier checks my horse within the week," Javert told the boy as he left, tossing him a copper coin for the work the boy didn't do.

"Yessir," the boy chirped, pocketing the money.

It was past six o'clock by the time Javert walked into his home. Carlette had left half a chicken on the table, already carved and nestled next to a loaf of bread. Javert contemplated warming up the food in the fireside hearth, but he decided that he was too tired. The chicken was still lukewarm, and he enjoyed it as it was, eating tediously with his silverware. Javert was never one to eat quickly. He loved to enjoy his meals ever since Carlette had come into his employment. He was unused to home-cooked meals every night and found that they were so much better than the cold cheese and sausage he would have in Toulon, the salt already on his lips nearly making it unbearable to eat.

When he was finished, Javert realized that his house felt entirely too empty, so he built a fire in the hearth, the crackling and popping of burning wood comforting him like a nurse's whispers to the ears of a babe. Once he retrieved a book from his shelf, he settled down in the sofa and began to read. The book was one he had just picked up one he arrived in Paris, a story of a certain General Washington during that pesky American Revolution. Javert didn't think to highly of the new Americans, yet he could spot a good man of character and he respected this George Washington almost as much as the patriots revered him. Every now and then, he would stop reading and place another log on the fire, the flames keeping the chill of loneliness at bay.

When his eyelids started to droop, he curled the corner of a page to mark his spot and rose with a grunt, his legs creaking as they woke. The stairs were climbed stiffly, footsteps heavy and clunking. His eyes glazed over as he stared at his painting of lion and bull while he changed. Javert removed his jacket and white undershirt, his chest bare and exposed. His high-waisted navy pants were still pressed from Carlettes's care, yet hay clung to the hems and he decided they smelled too much like the barn to be worn again. He sat on the bed and bent over to remove his boots, the exposed muscles in his shoulders rippling as he pulled. When he was finished, he ran a hand over his chin, scratching at his beard and undid his pants, folded them, and got up to place them in the hamper. Javert pulled on a clean white shirt over his under-britches and crawled into bed.

Javert only slept on one side of the bed, the left, not the center. He lay on his back, his hands pressed against the thin fabric of his shirt and moved his head to look to the side, the pristine linens untouched. Those green eyes of his blinked sadly. His room was drafty and big…his whole house was drafty and big. No one lived there, his only visitor a maid that rarely spoke to him. Loneliness was a crowding thing, it hovered over him and pressed inwards, sucking the air from Javert's lungs and making him close his eyes to try and ignore the emptiness that surrounded him.

Javert finally fell asleep, knowing of the letter that was sitting neatly on his desk, loopy writing spelling out his name. He had forgotten to check his office for a letter.

_"I am lonely, mademoiselle," he said, looking at the ceiling above him. The sheets rustled next to him as someone rose. He turned his head and looked at a woman, clad in black mourning robes, yet her hair cascaded down her shoulder like spun gold. Her face was covered in a black veil and he could not see her features. _

_ "Why?" she asked, her voice echoing like the call of a bird through an empty wood. _

_ "There is no one here. I speak to no one. I am alone," Javert replied, looking at the mussed linens that were on the other side of the large bed. _

_ "You speak to me." Her voice was flat. _

_ "I know not who you are," Javert admitted, looking up to try and see though the veil. _

_ The woman in black was silent. However, she reached her arms out to him, beckoning him closer. He rose from the bed and walked to her, yet she stayed the same distance away. Javert stopped, his brow furrowed. _

_ "What is this?" he asked, stopping where he stood. He looked down and saw the dark uniform of Inspector. _

_ "You do not wish to come closer?" the woman asked, her arms lying limply at her sides. _

_ "I cannot," he replied. _

_ "Why?" _

_ "I don't know…" he looked at his feet, expecting to see them cemented to the floor. They were fine, the black polished surface shining in the bedroom. He looked up and watched as the lion and bull from his painting come to life, wrestling, snorting, roaring, biting. Javert reeled backwards, surprised and frightened. Luckily, the two beasts stayed in their frame. _

_ "What is happening?" he asked, his heart quickening and his breathing becoming shallow. Javert had never been a man to get frightened, yet now he was terrified. He felt beads of sweat bud on his forehead and trickle down his temples. _

_ The woman stepped closer, "You are frightened." _

_ "Yes," Javert admitted, nodding as she neared him. _

_ "Lift my veil," the woman softly told him, reaching out and grabbing his hand. She brought it to the fabric. Tentatively, he took it and slowly pulled the veil up and over the woman's head, his green eyes searching. _

_ The ocean stared back. _

Javert fell off his bed. The shock of his body slamming on to the thick floorboards drove the air from his lungs. He coughed and heaved, trying desperately to breathe, his eyes wild and frightened. The daylight stung his eyes. The pounding in his head registered as knocks at the door.

_"Monsieur _Javert, is everything alright? I heard a loud thump," Carlette's muffled voice asked from behind the thick wood.

"Yes," he croaked, placing his hands on the bedpost as he tried to stand, "Yes, everything is fine…I just dropped something." Why was he lying? So she wouldn't come in and see him like this, that was why.

With wild eyes, he stared at the painting of the lion and the bull. They were still in their frames, frozen by the painter's strokes. Javert's shirt pressed clammily to his back, damp from nighttime sweat. He reeked of fear and agitation. The linens of his bed were tangled and twisted, the pillows strewn everywhere. Javert stood frozen to the spot, remembering the dream, vivid as a fever.

"Aimée?" he murmured, looking about. He realized that it was foolish of him to think that she would be there. It was only a dream. Was he so weak that he couldn't realize the fantasy?

As his shock and fear died away, it was replaced by anger and annoyance.

_Get a hold of yourself, you fool, _he muttered darkly as he dressed himself. _Dreams are dreams. _

However, he could not deny the fact that it worried him to see Aimée again, even if it was a trick of his imagination. Those eyes... They had dulled to a common blue in his memory, but in his dream he saw how deep and swirling they were. It was as if he was seeing her again for the first time. Something deep in his chest swirled and he actually clutched a hand to his heart as he stood.

Shaking his head, the feeling was gone. Javert, a man of reason, could not understand how the woman had snaked her way into his dreams. He rarely dreamed at all, mostly just slept in deep, silent darkness. But she had found him as easily as a fox finds a lame rabbit.

Javert sat on the side of his bed and brought his hands up to his face. She was so clear…so real to him. Aimée in her mourning black, her weakest state. She had lain next to him in his dream, the linens had rustled as she stood. Javert was ashamed of that. There wasn't anything sexual about the dream, yet the mere idea of her in his room set him on edge. That wasn't right, he wasn't a foolish boy dreaming of women in his bed.

He was a foolish man dreaming of a ghost of the ocean. The woman that had taught him how to fight loneliness. His friend.

_Your friend, _Javert told himself. _Your friend. Nothing more. Stop this right now._ Javert brought his hands away from his face and bowed his head. _Be like stone now, Javert. You cannot afford anything that will make you stray. You have to become the law now. _

His eyes darkened as he felt the stone start to take over. Javert became solid then, solid and cold and strong. He decided then that he would not let loneliness weaken him. He stared at his painting, picturing him as the lion, grappling with claws of strength, then as the bull, standing his ground with an unyielding sense of duty. Javert realized what he had to do. He had to find Valjean, had to spend his time hunting him down. Aimée would get in the way of that.

Javert walked to his study and saw the envelope on his desk. He had half expected it to be there. Quickly picking it up, he turned it over, knowing that if he had seen her handwriting, his resistance would crumble.

_She will forget about you, find a young handsome suitor, and be happy. She's stronger now, she doesn't need you. She's never needed you. You were the only one in need…the only weak one in need._ Javert's mind was biting as he realized how foolish he had been. His hand crumpled the letter as he held on to it.

He hurried downstairs and found that Carlette had built up the flames in the living room. Good, less time to second guess himself. Clenching his jaw so tightly it sent a tang of pain up to his ears, he neared the fire and saw how greedily the flames licked at the air. Closing his eyes, Javert gently tossed the unopened letter inside. As he stood, he imagined her screaming voice coming from the fire and he saw her face, kohl smeared from sadness.

His legs felt weak in his betrayal and he put his hands to his face again, stumbling to the sofa. Once he sat, he leaned forward, imagining her hands spreading warmth as she touched his face, her fingertips light at the base of his neck, her arms around her. He imagined the smell of lilac and vanilla and it burned his lungs as smoke. His palms felt wet as they pressed to his eyes and realized that he was crying, the tears falling from guilt and the feeling of failure.

_This is the right thing, _his thoughts were quieter, _she'll forget you. You need to be the law now. _

Reserve was a creeping thing as Javert finally managed to pull himself together. He sniffed and wiped his face, his hand traveling over a man and changing it to stone, strict unyielding stone. The letter was ashes now.

_There is only Javert,_ he told himself, trying to strengthen the stone that surrounded him now.

He turned and went to work without eating breakfast.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Hey guys! Last chapter before we speed up a bit in time. I'd like to thank everyone who reviews, makes me want to keep writing! **_

_**Special shout out to Castellorizon for always having something nice to say, thank you so much :)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

XVII: Moving On

_This house had been Javert's…_Aimée thought, looking over the emptiness. The letter with his key had arrived nearly months ago, but she couldn't bring herself to finally go to his home. She was warmed that he felt like he could trust her with his key, trust her to walk through his home and see how he lived, or how he _had_ lived. She found her hand resting on the small table that sat in his dark entryway, the snow from her sleeve melting into the wool.

The large room with the fireplace was empty, save for two chairs and a bookshelf. She quickly stepped over to it and read the spines. They were moving in exactly two weeks, and she had received no letter in quite some time. Aimée told herself that he must've been busy, too busy to write. The heavy brass key was clutched in her hand and she found that she enjoyed the weight of it as she stood.

His books were mostly military. Battle strategies, weapons throughout history, famous generals. She squinted her eyes and shook her head as she bent close to the worn spines, struggling to read in the gloom. There, at the last end of the row, she finally found something that had peaked her interest. It was a rather large book, dusty and brown as she pulled it from the shelf.

"_Transatlantic Travels to the Exotic East_" she murmured, flipping it open and scanning the thick pages. She smiled, gathered the book up into her arms, and quickly left the room towards the door. She found that the house unsettled her, made her think of the strict friend that had left her here, all alone. The door locked with a quiet click behind her as she stepped back out into the snow.

Two days later, Aimée stood in her room, now bare and desolate, much like she was. Snow was lightly flitting to the ground and clumped on her windowsill. The white of the winter day blanched her empty room, sucked the color out of the cream walls and brown bedposts. The rug on her floor, once a red and navy design, looked washed out and dull. Her treasures, the ribbons, pictures, dried flowers, had been gently packed away in a box and strapped to the carriage outside, along with her clothes. She clutched a small wooden box to her chest, filled with Javert's letters and the heavy book she had taken from his house. He hadn't returned her post in over two months, yet she still clung to them desperately, trying to convince herself that the man was away searching, or too busy to write. Soon, he'll get some free time and send her a letter. Or respond to hers, considering he did not know the Lamenté's new address.

The brass key sat heavily at her throat, a thin chain strung through the hole at the end. It felt cool and strong against her skin.

Sighing, Aimée, now turned seventeen in the oncoming winter, turned and headed towards the door of her childhood safety. Looking over her shoulder, she stared at the windowsill that held her when she thought or when she would gaze up at the stars. Murmuring a little prayer, she closed the door behind her gently. The hallway whispered memories to her as she padded to the foot of the staircase that led to the attic. She stood at the bottom step, her one hand on the bannister, the other cradling her treasured letters. Her feet were confident as she climbed the first few steps, but as she neared the top door, she froze. Aimée had not been upstairs since that fateful night so long ago. She still smelled the copper tang of blood and saw the stains behind her lids.

_I'm sorry, Mama. But I can't go up there to pray. I miss you so much…and I'll always miss you. _

Bowing her head, she turned and went back down the stairs, not strong enough to continue. Her heart beat against the light cedar of her treasure box and she met Anna at the foot of the stairs. Gérard was outside, arguing with the driver of the ox cart that was supposed to be driving behind the carriage, their trunks and heirlooms piled high and covered with burlap.

"You want your shawl, Aimée?" Anna asked, handing Aimée her winter cloak, a thick wool wrap lined in the softest of rabbit fur. A parting gift that Beaudet had sent to their home before the small family left for Montreuil.

The young woman nodded and wrapped the soft warmth around her shoulders. The wool of her dress and thick petticoat was keeping her warm and the snow was light, sure to melt whenever a dash of sun peeked through.

Anna sat next to her after the two climbed into the carriage. The maid clasped Aimée's hand in both of hers, trying to comfort her friend as they changed worlds, changed lives. Gérard dusted the snow from the brim of his hat before he stepped into the carriage.

"Are we all set?" he asked, his eyes glancing to Aimée, then to the red-headed maid. "All ready to go?"

"I think so, _Monsieur _Lamenté," Anna answered, glancing as Aimée kept her head bowed, her thumb running along the edge of her box.

"Very well," Gérard turned and tapped the front of the carriage with his knuckle, the ring there softly clicking against the wood. There was the muffled snap of reigns and the horses started down the road, their clopping footsteps slightly muffled from the light snow. The carriage swayed and Aimée craned her neck to try and watch the shape of their house disappearing behind them. Feeling her memories and past start to grow into a lump in her throat, she looked away just as her eyes began to sting. She felt the rectangle of her letters, and she felt some sort of comfort. Aimée began to plan out a letter in her mind.

"Aren't you excited for our new life, Aimée?" Gérard asked her as the carriage lurched over a hold in the road.

"Yes, Father," she answered, her voice flat.

"We'll be living in wealth. Wealth and business, and Montreuil is so much better than this hovel on the sea!" he exclaimed.

Aimée noticed that he insulted Toulon just as the carriage passed the cemetery…as they passed her mother. Her eyes darkened, but she kept them to the floor. Anna, sensing her discomfort, gave her hand a squeeze. Aimée wished that she had some of that brandy tea that the maid was so fond of.

The hours passed in silence. Gérard, as usual, nodded off before they really even left the city, and the women stayed silent, hoping not to wake him up. They preferred sitting in quiet over his chatter. Wintery dusk had started to settle when they finally rolled up to their new home. The tall form of Arthur Monpedite waited for them, his shoulders dusted with the white flakes of wintertime. He gave her his hand as he helped her from the carriage.

"Welcome back, _mademoiselle!_" he exclaimed, helping Anna down as well. The maid blushed uncomfortably, not used to the kindness of the wealth. She glanced at him, amazed by his height "I trust your travels went swimmingly?"

"Yes, sir, they did," Aimée said, watching as servants came and untied the burlap from their things on the wagon. Gérard followed them, bossing them about, making sure they put items where he felt they belonged.

Aimée felt a light hand at her back, "Come, inside the factory," Monpedite said, leaning over and gesturing across street to the finished factory. It looked ten times larger than what Aimée had remembered. "There's warm tea and a fireplace for you both inside. I shall help your father move."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself," Aimée said, shocked that Gérard's new supervisor would offer such a thing. "I'm sure he will be fine, he has enough people helping him, _monsieur._"

"Nonsense, I insist!" Arthur exclaimed, giving the two women a dazzling smile as white as the surrounding snow, "Now hurry yourselves over there, _mademoiselles, _before your tea chills."

Anna and Aimée looked at each other, shrugged under their shawls, and made their way over to the factory. The door opened with a creak and warmth flooded them like a comforting tide. Aimée assumed that the tea he set out would be in his office, so she climbed the stairs and walked through the door, Anna at her heels. Inside, there were two chairs facing a fireplace, two cups of steaming tea sitting on the end table between them.

"Accommodating," Anna said, her eyebrows raised as they settled in.

"Quite...however I still don't know what to think about him," Aimée said, sipping at the tea. It was almost too sweat to drink, but she was grateful for the liquid warmth. "He's all smiles and laughter, almost too nice."

"And rather tall, isn't he?" Anna said, "Lord, I've never seen anyone as close to the clouds as him. He does seem sincere though, not like that sly little fox of a nephew that Beaudet had."

Aimée agreed quietly, sipping at the sweet drink. She hadn't told Anna the truth behind her rescue that night. As if reading her mind, Anna looked over at her, her lips quirked by the sweetness of her tea.

"I heard that Javert was the one who brought you back to the house that night," the maid said, watching as Aimée's cheeks grew rosy. "Don't be bashful."

"Apparently he did, I don't remember much…just that I was carried. I felt safe."

"You're better than a romance novel," Anna teased, running her finger along the rim of her cup, sticky from the sugar in the tea.

The look that was shot from Aimée's ocean was annoyed, but when she saw Anna laughing, she couldn't help but give a sad smile. "As much as you wish it, Anna, I highly doubt any of what you say will be true."

Anna's chuckle died away and she watched her younger friend, "Why's that?"

"He hasn't been returning my letters," Aimée admitted, running her hand over the box that sat in her lap. "Not for months."

For once, Anna didn't know what to say. She sipped against the clogging sweetness of her tea and glanced to the floor. "The man is probably just busy, Aimée, he'll return post soon."

"Yes…maybe he will." She couldn't help but notice how desperate her words sounded to her own ears. The fire in Monpedite's office snapped and popped as it fought of the winter chill.

"They say this city is going to be quite busy once the factory officially opens tomorrow," Anna said, relaying the gossip she had overheard. "There will be people everywhere, and we're going to be the upper class." Anna paused for a moment, "Well, _you're_ going to be the upper class, Miss."

"Oh hush, you're barely a maid any more, Anna," Aimée said, looking at the box that sat in her lap. "More like part of the family now."

The maid gave a happy hum at her words. The two sat as the warmth curled away from their tea, they both had had enough of the sugariness in their cups. They waited by the fire until a servant in a white coat opened the door with a bow.

"_Mademoiselle,_ Lamenté," he said, his mustache sleek and dark along his lip, "Your father requests you return to your home now. Might I carry your package?"

She felt her hands tighten around the box as she stood. "No…ah, no thank you. I've got it."

The servant shrugged and smoothly walked past them to clean up the tea dishes. "Right this way, _mademoiselle," _he said, striding past them. Aimée didn't like the way he blatantly ignored Anna.

Stepping into her new home, she was amazed to find that it was larger on the inside than what it had appeared to be out on the street. A towering entryway, with sleek wood floors, polished to a glistening shine. The floors of her own home had been dusty and uninteresting, worn and tired from use. A chandelier made of twinkling glass crystals shone above her head and a wide staircase wound its way upwards in front of her, a balcony like landing at the top, a dark wood carved banister running along its edge. Too her right was a grand dining room, a massive table lined with nearly ten chairs, the wood almost as dark as the night. Tall-backed chairs sat close to the edge of the table, already set with fine china. It seemed that the house was already nearly furnished for them, cupboards, furniture, clocks, and paintings decorated the home. Through the dining room, Aimée was led to a kitchen, ten times the size of anything she had seen before. She heard Anna's breath catch in her throat.

"Isn't this fantastic!" Gérard exclaimed, coming up and surprising the two women. His face was nearly split in two by the size of his grin. "Anna, if you go to your right, you'll see the pantry. Spices, preserves, anything you need will be right here! You'll only have to go to the market once a week!"

"Oh my," the maid said, looking about.

"Aimée, come this way," her father instructed, leading her by the arm. They left Anna staring wide-eyed at her new kitchen. "This is the library," her father said, ushering her across the massive entryway and into a smaller room with shelves lining the walls and stretching all the way to the ceiling. The rug was a plush wine color with exotic golden designs spread out intricately along its length. Oil lamps burned at the walls, casting the library in a warm glow that enveloped her.

"Monpedite heard you were doing a lot of reading, so he donated these books to us, free of charge!" Gérard watched his daughter for approval. When she didn't speak, he was unworried because he saw the way her eyes widened in disbelief.

"And now to your room," Gérard said, snapping her from her trance. He led her up the stairs to the large balcony. It turned into a hall and her father brought her down the left side and to the first door they came too. "Your very own powder room," Gérard said, showing off the large mirror and vanity with a flourish.

The next room was a guest room, just as grand as her parent's bedroom back in Toulon, and finally, they reached Aimée's new door. As Gérard opened it, Aimée found herself nervous, still clutching the box of Javert's letters close to her chest. Her room was a deep lavender color, edged in white trim. The four-poster was hung with deep cream curtains of thick velvet that would surely block the sun from two massive paned windows that took up nearly the entire wall opposite the footboard of the bed. A desk sat in the corner, and two reading chairs in front of her very own fireplace, a broad expanse of white marble. The floor was covered with her own Persian rug and her trunks were already stacked at the center, her clothes waiting to be unpacked and put away in the massive oak wardrobe. Pictures of flowers and birds hung on the walls, making it feel like spring, even though snow lightly drifted from the sky outside.

"Oh my," Aimée heard herself breathe as she looked at the plump pillows and comforter that draped themselves on her bed.

"Those windows can open," Gérard explained, "and in the spring there will be window boxes full of flowers. And you have two of your own chairs, so Anna can come visit, after she finishes with her duties, of course."

Aimée walked into her room, her shoes clicking on the polished wood floor, she quickly bent over and removed them, not wanting to get snowy sludge on her new rug. "It's so…so _huge,_" she exclaimed, her fingers tight around the box. She swallowed past Javert's key.

"I knew you'd like it. My quarters are down the other side of the hall. We're separated." For some reason, he sounded relieved. "I'll leave you to get moved in, shall I send Anna up?"

"Um…I-" but she didn't answer quickly enough he was already out the door and calling down the massive staircase.

Aimée was alone in her new room, large, lavish and empty. She stepped over to her bed and sat down, noticing how the mattress sagged with downy comfort. Placing the box next to her, she opened the lid and pulled out the bundle of letters. Bringing a hand to the base of her neck, she ran her fingers over the cool metal of the key as she read Javert's words. Her heart ached for a moment as she looked over his slanted hand.

_Well and safe and happy…_

She wasn't…not here. Not in this new room, this new home, or in this new city. A stirring little hole of loneliness started to churn in her gut. It had been over two months with no letter…. Her head fell into her hands and a sob wracked her body as she realized there would be no more letters. Javert had left, he wouldn't write her again. Aimée Lamenté was alone once more.

Anna found her like that, hunched over and crying, her tears leaking through her fingers and dripping on the ink of the envelope. She quickly removed the letters, placed them in the box, and calmly reached on her tiptoes to place them high atop the wardrobe. Then, in the calm sense of sisterhood, sat next to Aimée and pulled her into her arms.

"Shhh…" Anna cooed, rubbing her hands along Aimée's back as the young heart cracked and shattered.

"I don't know what I did," Aimée choked, her eyes red-rimmed and ugly from tears. "He promised he'd write."

"Oh, honey," Anna sighed, holding the crying girl closer. "Sometimes it's not our fault and things are unknown. People break promises…"

Aimée hiccupped from tears and clenched her eyes shut. "And now I'm here, away from my mother and all alone in this city."

Anna hushed her gently. "It's alright...your mother will always be near you, she loves you too much not to watch over you, Aimée. And you're not alone…I'm here for you." Anna felt a warmth bud in her chest that she hadn't felt in years. Loyalty to her broke friend. "I won't leave you, I can promise you that."

Her words comforted Aimée, yet she still felt the crushing sadness press down on her shoulders.

"I think I loved him."

"I know…I know," Anna said, holding Aimée's arms and gently pushing her away so the maid could meet her eyes. "And it hurts…I know that ache, Aimée. We are together in that. But, if he leaves you like this, the man doesn't deserve your love, or even your attention, understand?"

Aimée didn't nod, she merely sniffed and tears continued to flow down her face.

"Aimée, listen to me," Anna's tone turned serious, "You must be strong now. Be stone." She reached up and wiped the tears away from the crying woman's face. "He may have meant the world to you, everything you knew, but we've moved on. We must adapt and overcome. Those letters? Strength while they lasted, but now he's gone and we must use that strength now."

"What?" Aimée asked, the tip of her nose red from sniffing back her sobs. Her breath was ragged as she tried to catch it.

"Me and you, we are two people in this whole new place. We have each other, got it?" Anna lifted Aimée's chin and her eyes shined like Irish fire. "I will keep you safe here."

Aimée was quiet as she felt the weight of the key around her neck. It felt uncomfortable, pressing against the soft skin of her throat, seeping hurt into her bloodstream. Yet, the girl couldn't bring herself to reach up and break the chain, couldn't bring herself to throw it away from her. She wiped at her own eyes, removing the last of her tears from her puffy lids. "We will keep each other safe," Aimée finally answered, her ocean roiling behind her lids. Anna dared a smile.

"There we go…that's better. Now, let's unpack your things, alright?"

"Alright."

The two unpacked in silence, the heaviness of their interaction had not yet left the room. Dresses fit easily into the wardrobe along with underclothes, bonnets, sashes, and shoes. There was a still lot of room left over. Neither of them looked at the box that sat atop the wardrobe. After her clothes, the two unpacked her little treasures, placing them on shelves and in corners, fearing to mark up the pristine lavender walls.

Then, the two sat on the bed passing Anna's flask between them. "I've never seen a more appropriate occasion," Anna had said as she closed Aimée's bedroom door for the night. The flask had been filled with brandy, and it quickly rushed to their heads.

"I just…I just don't know why,' Aimée slurred, craning her neck back and staring at the cloth ceiling of her four-poster.

"Why what? Why he stopped writing?" Anna asked unceremoniously, her voice equally as thick.

"No, why I fell for him in the first place," Aimée groaned as her stomach bloomed with alcoholic warmth.

"Because he was kind to you," Anna answered. "and I honestly believed he cared about you, Miss."

"And he was handsome." Aimée finally admitted the words out loud. "I liked his eyes and his beard," she snorted as she took another drink.

"I will admit the chap looked good in a uniform, regardless of his age," the maid agreed.

Aimée flopped backwards, her hair splayed and wild after she had freed it from her braided bun. "Now that I finally admitted, I feel foolish. Childless, like a little girl," she hiccupped, "but..but now I think- I think that I'll be ok. I just won't waste my time anymore."

Anna flopped down next to her, her eyes glazed, "We'll be fine here…just you see. We'll both find some young- young and handsome – men. We'll both be the talk of the town!"

The two friends burst into drunken titters and giggles. Aimée actually snorted, which made them just laugh harder, and soon their guts started to ache from happiness.

"Do, do you think my father'll be mad? That I'm drinking?" Aimée whispered suddenly.

"You mean that you're drunk?" Anna corrected.

"Yes."

"Nah…I don't think so," Anna said, expelling a short burst of air and waving her hand. "We'll be fine. Pass the-pass the thing."

"Ok."

Anna took a swig. "It's because I'm Irish," she slurred for no reason in particular.

"What is?" Aimée asked, turning her head and looking at her friend.

Anna paused a moment, her eyebrow furrowed in thought. Finally, she blurted "I don't know, it just is." They both snickered.

"That Monpedite is going to be interesting," Aimée said, remembering how sickly sweet the tea had been.

"Mmm…interesting indeed!" the Irish woman giggled, "he's already got my full attention."

Aimée gasped, "Anna! Shut your mouth!"

"I can say what I want!" she shouted.

"Shhh…shhh, someone'll hear us!" Aimée whispered earnestly, grabbing a pillow and flinging it over Anna's face.

"That wasn't very nice…now how am I supposed to drink!" her voice was muffled from under the down.

Aimée giggled. "I'm tired…let's go to sleep."

"I have-I have to go back to my room," Anna said, removing the pillow and groaning as she tried to stand.

"Stay here!" Aimée pleaded, grabbing a hold of Anna's porcelain arm and tugging her back down to the bed. She toppled over quite inelegantly with a surprised squeak, her flask clutched tightly in her hand.

"What are you trying to do, break my neck?" she whispered.

"Just stay!" Aimée replied. "This bed is huge!"

Anna groaned, "Fine, but only because I don't want your father to see me stumbling around his hallway, drunk."

"Yay!" Aimée quietly exclaimed, giving a little clap. "Help me with the lamps."

The two managed to stagger their way around her large room, dousing the lamps and filling the room with darkness.

"I feel like we didn't think this through, Aimée," Anna called from the dark, her feet shuffling around the floor.

"We'll find it," Aimée said, her arms extended in the dark. They both tripped over the side of the bed and flopped back down onto the mattress. They lay on their backs, side by side, blonde hair sprawled out and meeting red.

"Do you think we'll be happy here?" Aimée asked in the darkness as her eyes started to droop.

"I hope so, Aimée…I really do."


	18. Chapter 18

_**Hey guys, everything's moving on! Our timeline has changed, and we'll see how things go!**_

XVIII: Realization Upon Arrival

_**Nearly 8 years later…**_

"I said I wanted roses, _roses!_ What are these?" The angry woman asked, her eyes angry under the strands of her graying hair.

The florist sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers were long, elegant, yet pricked from handling thorny stems. Her graceful hands met with strong wrists and a sleek forearm, covered at the elbow by the sleeves of her dress.

"I'm sorry, _Madame, _there must've been a mistake, these are carnations." The woman took the bundle away from the angry customer's hands and tucked it behind the counter. "Excuse me a moment, I'll be right back," she said, holding up a hand to the customer.

Quickly, the shopkeeper ducked through a covered door into her back room. Bins and bins of flowers were overflowing large buckets of water. Lilies, carnations, roses, tulips, daffodils, snapdragons, lilacs, daisies…any flower under God's yellow sun sat in the back of the shop. She quickly hurried to the back corner of the storage room and gently plucked up a dozen red roses, wrapping them in brown paper and tying them with string.

"I'm so sorry about the mix-up, _Madame,_" she apologized, handing the bouquet over to the arms of the woman. "That'll be a franc and twenty sou."

The customer tossed three coins on the counter, gathered up her flowers, and stepped out into the early afternoon sunshine. Her slim hands collected the money, tucked it in the pocket of her apron, and pulled the cloth from her shoulder. She rubbed it along the counter, removing dirt and dust, before she knelt and grabbed the discarded bundle of carnations. Snipping the ends with shears, she placed them back in the bucket of water and stepped back to behind her counter.

The woman leaned forward, propping her elbows up and letting her chin rest on her palm. Her eyes darted about the floral shop and out the window, watching people pass by carrying baskets of food and other groceries. Her fingers twirled around a blonde strand of hair that had fallen from her bun. She hummed to herself mildly, not really minding that it was a slow day.

An Irish woman passed by her window and approached the door. With a sly grin on her face, the florist quickly ducked behind her counter, sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the shelves. She heard the bell of her door chime as it opened.

"Where'd she go?" she heard the woman whisper. Her questions were answered by the clopping of little shoes. A little face peered behind the counter, white skin with the freckles and red hair of her mother.

"Auntie Aimée!" little Bellarae squealed, rushing forward and pouncing into the florist's lap.

Aimée burst out laughing and scooped up the little girl into her arms, tickling fiercely. "Auntie Aimée's been replaced by a monster!" she growled playfully, her fingers dancing around the little girl and making her giggle.

"Bellarae was so excited to see you," Anna said, holding her daughter's little doll in her hand as Aimée stood and slung the little girl over her shoulder. She squealed and kicked her legs.

"She was, was she?" Aimée asked, letting the child down and not minding as she swung on her arm, her little hands clasping at hers. "It's so nice to see you, Anna!"

The two women hugged and Aimée noticed the dusting of gray that started to peak though at Anna's roots. No doubt stress caused by the rambunctious child at her hand, pulling to have her doll back. Anna was wearing an expensive day dress and looked as radiant as any mother should.

"How long has it been?"

"Nearly a year, nearly a year."

The bell chimed again and Aimée watched as the tall Arthur Monpedite ducked underneath the threshold. "Aimée Lamenté! Such a delight to see you again!" he exclaimed in the grand way that he had, bending over and kissing both her cheeks in greeting.

"Hello, Arthur, I was just telling Anna how nice it is to see you all again. Will you be stopping by for dinner?"

"I think that was the plan, if that's not too much trouble," Anna said, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. The silver glinted at her finger happily.

"Not at all! I got your letter, the maids should be having everything prepped for tea. Are you staying in the hotel down the street?," Aimée said, quickly untying the apron. Her dress was a light yellow, not matching the duskiness of the shop at all.

Anna nodded, "Yes, right up the road, _The Yellow Bird Hotel_. That's a new building I see, looks quite charming."

"How is the old man, Gérard?" Monpedite asked as they stepped out of the flower shop and into the damp spring.

"Father's been fine," Aimée said, turning behind her and locking up her shop with a little brass key. She tucked it in the pocket of her dress, walking close to Anna and her friend's little, rambunctious child. She bit her lip, "As tight with money as always…even when we don't need to be. Anna, you remember how much begging it took to persuade him to let me open up my shop?"

"I do, you started begging even before my wedding!" Anna laughed, looking for a moment like her younger self, her eyes bright and hair flaming. "When did you open?"

"Nearly four years ago last week," Aimée said proudly.

"You have your father's sense of business," Monpedite chuckled, looking around his old town with reminiscent eyes. "I trust the factory's doing well?"

"Oh yes, ever since you traded off to _Monsieur_ Madeleine," Aimée said, referring to the business transaction a few years ago when Arthur Monpedite, then newly married, gave the rights to his factory to the up and coming mayor, a man only few knew as Madeleine. To most, the kind gentleman was called _Monsieur le maire. _

When the tradeoff happened, Gérard had been irate that Monpedite hadn't offered to give the factory to him, a close friend and partner. Gradually, Aimée's father came to terms with the decision, deciding that he knew finance better than management. However, the man was probably still bitter.

Anna tugged on her daughters arm, forcing her to steer clear of a particularly foul-looking mud puddle. The sun warmed the little girl's scalp and she swung her arms as she walked, muttering the lyrics of a song under her breath. Aimée smiled at the little dove.

"Father's probably at the factory still," Aimée said as she led the family though her door. "Thomas, could you fetch us some tea, please?"

An older man with hair the color of smoke nodded and disappeared to the kitchen. They all seated themselves in the library, except for little Bellarae, who quickly sprawled across the rug, standing her doll up and trying to make her balance on little black shoes. Thomas quickly provided them with a platter of tea, sugar, and cream. Aimée watched as Monpedite drowned his tea with sugar and stirred with the little silver spoon.

"Does that man ever leave the factory's office?" he asked, tapping the silver against china and took a sip of his sweet drink.

Aimée shook her head, "Rarely, I haven't seen him in a few days, actually."

"That's ridiculous," Anna said, "Leaving a girl like you to fend for yourself in this lonely house."

"I'm twenty-five now, Anna," Aimée said, sipping her tea, savoring its pureness, free of any cream or sugar. "And besides, the flower shop keeps me busy."

"I keep having to remind myself that you're no longer seventeen," Anna said, snorting into her tea, "That was so long ago!"

The two friends talked often, whether it be in person or though letters, yet they rarely acknowledged the year between Aimée's sixteenth and seventeenth birthday. Filled with so much heartbreak and dependence…better kept in the back of their minds.

"Dear, would you take Bellarae with you to the factory and see if Gérard is there? I'm sure he'd like to see you again," the red-haired woman asked her husband once the tea was finished.

Monpedite agreed, scooped up his little girl, and the two left the house and went back out into the spring day. The house was quiet around Aimée and Anna, large, lush, and quiet. Thomas shuffled out to take the tea tray, but Anna held up a hand to stop him.

"Thank you, Thomas, but Aimée and I can clean up. It won't be any trouble."

The butler, a little surprised, sidestepped and gave her a nod before he went back into the dining room to polish the silverware with a linen rag. Anna stood, gathered up the tray, and headed off to the kitchen. Aimée followed.

"I loved this kitchen so much, I almost didn't marry Arthur because I didn't want to be away from it," the older woman laughed, setting the dishes down in the washbasin. Aimée pumped out some cold water and warmed some in the kettle over the fire. When the water was heated, she added it to the cooler water and started to gently wipe the porcelain clean.

"I see you still wear that thin chain around your neck," came Anna's words behind her. Aimée looked up, a little shocked. "Is the key still there?"

The young woman's silence was answer enough for her friend. Her stormy eyes were cast downwards as she scrubbed, trying her best to hide the slight blush that crept up her neck.

"Eight years, Aimée," Anna said, taking the clean dishes and wiping them dry with a rag. "Eight years and you wear his key. When you first told me that he sent you it, I was surprised. Surprised that a man would trust you that much and then leave without word."

Aimée's heart twinged as she thought back to the night where she held herself and sobbed when she realized that Javert would never write to her again. That was the night her and Anna had become sisters, not by blood, but by mutual love. She felt her hand travel to her throat and clutch at the brass key, one side worn and tarnished from where it rested to her skin, day by day, year by year.

"I had not thought of him in some time," Aimée admitted, her fingers twining themselves in the gold chain. She closed her eyes in a long blink.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to bring up past hurt," Anna said, placing the dry and clean dishes on the wooden counter. "Have you met a man yet?"

"No," Aimée admitted, "Every time I see a handsome one, I hide in my shop."

Anna snorted, and not very elegantly. "You? Hiding away? Why? You're young, beautiful, charming, radiant."

"Not as young as I used to be," Aimée said, smiling, "I'm older than you were when you met Arthur. Father says I should be married by now."

"Your father can kiss the backside of a horse," the Irish woman muttered.

"Anna!" Aimée smacked her friend across the stomach with the back of her hand, slightly appalled by her sister's words.

"Cautiously, little sis," Anna smiled, running her hand over her stomach. For the first time, Aimée noticed the slight swell under her bosom, the small budding of another child. She felt her mouth fall open and she couldn't help but press her hand gently to Anna's stomach.

"Another?" she asked, watching the red-hair bob as Anna nodded. Aimée smiled. "How far?"

"Only three months." Anna spoke of her pregnancy with the natural glow that followed motherhood. "A son, I hope. A little Arthur, to follow his father."

"I'm so happy for you!" Aimée exclaimed, smiling at her. "I was about to offer you wine, but now I've decided against it."

"No drink during pregnancy, I'm afraid…the nurse's say it could be harmful to the baby."

When the front door opened again, the dishes were all done and waiting for Thomas to take them back to their cupboard. Gérard stumbled in, a few days' worth of growth clinging to his chin like a grubby shadow. Bags cradled his eyes and the whites were dulled yellow. His shirt was wrinkled and stained, days from being clean, and his fingers were stained with the deep indigo ink of his quill. Arthur followed him, tall and well kept, his daughter hiding behind his legs. Aimée's father had always frightened the little Bellarae, as well he should.

"You did not tell me we were having guests," Gérard hissed, walking up to Aimée. He stank of sweat and candlewax, of agitation and annoyance.

"I sent word for you at the factory, Father," Aimée said, stepping backwards like a child. Even in her age, she was terrified of the man. Over the last eight years, he had grown distant and cold without his wife's loving touch. Business had turned him into a monster. "You secretary must not have reached you."

Gérard turned and gave a small nod to Monpedite before he took his daughter by the arm and pulled her aside into the servant's pantry.

"I never heard word. You bring visitors to my house, that backstabbing man and his whore wife and their little brat. I had no idea and you never asked permission."

"Don't you dare speak about Anna and Arthur like that," Aimée retaliated, a fire returning to her ocean. "They are good, kind people and-"

"And Monpedite hands over a company I worked hard for over to a nobody, a stranger. He did it to spite me, married my housemaid, and ran away. And now he is in my home." Gérard was hissing though his teeth, his dank eyes narrowed in anger.

Aimée was quiet in his hurt. She had planned to surprise him with guests and a nice dinner. Anger budded inside of her. Then she spoke. "You only care about money. Money and business. You don't give a damn about me, never gave a damn about Mother. I've lived in this house, seen your tirades, you're just a drunk. A money-hungry drunk." Her voice was hushed, desperate to keep their conversation away from the ears of Anna and her family, yet fire singed her words.

"Get upstairs," he growled. "I will tend to your rotten guests, but you? You are to go upstairs. Don't you dare let me see you again, otherwise that dank shop you own will be your new home."

She felt like a little girl. It was ridiculous, to allow her father to speak to her like that at her age, yet, if she was still unmarried and living in his house, Gérard could speak to her any damn well way he pleased. The sad truth annoyed her and bit at her eyes. She felt tears brim her lids, but she hid them well and lowered her head as her father pushed by her, unsettling her and causing her to stumble into the sacks of flour to her right. Aimée picked herself up, paused a moment as she listened to her father lead them back into the library for some brandy, then quickly snuck up the stairs and to her quarters. She quickly undid the laces of her dress, the tighness form the corset irritating her chest as she struggled to breathe. Leaving the yellow fabric on the floor of her room, she stood in her white chemise. The bed that had held her for eight years cradled her without question as she shed quiet, angry tears into her pillow. She felt her key press against the soft flesh of her throat and sobbed again, this time out of the fresh pain of the reopened wound on her heart. Aimée thought she had healed from her childhood heartbreak, thought she had forgotten.

The box beckoned her from above her wardrobe, still and forgotten for eight years, collecting dust and biding its time quietly until it realized that it was needed. The cedar whispered to her, whispered the written words of the man that had left her, deserted her here in this house..

_Well and safe and happy, _Aimée heard in her ears from the corner of her room. _I hope you are well and safe and happy. _After eight years, she still remembered his words, still remembered how he had ended his letters.

Aimée rubbed her eyes and sat up from her bed. For the first time in eight years, Aimée graced her lips with his name. "Javert…" security flowed through her, and for once, she felt protected.  
_Just a name, and your heart opens like a dam, _Aimée thought, padding over to the wardrobe and standing on her tiptoes. She felt the dusty wood of the little box and struggled to grab hold of its edges. When her fingertips caught hold of the box, she pulled it down and held it close to her chest as she walked back to her bed, ignoring the dust that smudged the fabric of her chemise.

She brushed the dust off the dust from the cover of her box with one finger, drawing lines in the dusty wood and revealing the polished cedar beneath. Aimée was frightened to open the box again, open the letters and read his words. Worried about what might happen once the memories were set free. Did the hurt of desertion fade with time? Or would it feel as fresh as ever once that lid opened?

The sun was warm through her window, maybe an hour away from dusk, and it lay down across her bed and floor like a golden haze. She felt the back of her neck itch and she undid the latch. Closing her eyes as she dipped her hands inside and felt the stiff parchment of Javert's letters, she tried to remember his face, hazy now from time. The frown that graced her mouth when she couldn't really remember what he looked like tasted sour.

However...maybe that was a bitter blessing in disguise.

Yet his words…his voice…the low, strong timbre that almost seemed like a growl when it started low in the man's chest. Aimée still remember that as plain as the day outside. Her ears perked up when she heard the distant opening and closing of the front door and abandoned her box to scurry over to her window. The spring air tickled her nose when she craned her neck, trying to watch as Anna and her family left, yet she couldn't see them from this side of the building.

Disappointment filled her, making her feet feel like cement. Trudging back over to the box, she peered through the open lid. Javert's handwriting was harsh and slanted, yet handsome and pleasing to look at. She picked one up and started to read with is voice, imagining the rumble actually filling her ears and stirring her heart.

Ombre's hooves pounded in the wet sand. A horse now aged around twelve, but still strong, fast, and obedient. The man nestled in the saddle was just the same, chiseled and stern by the harshness of duty and justice. A mouth that hadn't seen a smile in many years was framed by a beard, now peppered with gray. Judgmental green eyes stared ahead intently, slightly downturned and traced with wrinkles from stress and growing age. A crease had formed between his brows from constant furrowing, and the man's back was straight as a bored, unyielding and unkind. A wide hat sat on his head and brass medals sat pinned to his coat. A man of the law, an enforcer of truth and punisher of crime. Men followed him as he rode. This was nothing new, he had been followed for years, as well as feared and hated.

A man of stone, Inspector Javert pounded onwards to the gate of the city, the horses behind him snorting as they kept pace. Montreuil welcomed him quietly as he pulled on Ombre's reins, slowing the horse to a trot. The air tasted salty and briny and he briefly thought of the shipyards of Toulon, but he quickly snapped back to attention as he noticed the people watching him in the streets. Grubby people, mud on their faces and sweat on their clothes. His lip curled distastefully and he thought of the baton that sat on his hip. He watched as several urchin children scampered in front of his horse and Ombre snorted, as if in anger. Right away, Javert wasn't impressed with the city. He had spotted a shipyard, so he knew that Montreuil was no doubt filled with prostitutes and shady men that followed the ancient business. He passed several shops as he made his way into the city, a butcher, a bakery, and a flower shop, all windows dark from closing time.

When he was told he would be transferred to Montreuil, Javert didn't know what to think. For some reason, the name stirred some kind of recognition deep in his gut, but it was quickly gone. He no doubt had heard about it from some merchant or prisoner as they muttered to each other between their bars.

The factory was easy enough to find. He was to meet with the mayor, a man known by the name of _Monsieur_ Madeleine. He owned the largest factory in Montreuil and the surrounding towns, a manufacturer of rosaries. Javert swung himself off of his horse and bade his men to stay outside. The evening was pleasant and they were pleased to stretch their legs and have a moment away from Javert's scrutiny.

Inside, women were threading the beads quietly, their hands moving in perfect synchronization. Javert watched their hands, pricked from the threading needles, and their nails short and grubby. He thought of the hands of the inmates in Toulon, pulling the ships with equal harmonization, pull…pull…pull.

"Can I help you, Inspector?" asked a voice from his right. Javert turned and lifted his chin as he regarded the foreman with watchful eyes.

"I'm here to see _Monsieur le Maire," _Javert said, blinking and turning his attention back to the workers.

"Oh yes, I believe he said something about you arriving. I'm afraid he's away at the moment," the foreman said, crossing his arms. Javert didn't look at him as he realized the man was foul with body odor.

"Might I wait in his office?" the inspector asked, looking up the stairs and seeing a frosted glass door above.

Before the rank manager could answer, he started climbing. The office was medium sized, larger than Javert's had been back in Paris, and neat. He appreciated the order of the papers, books, and files on the desk and in the cabinets. Two chairs sat in front of Madeleine's desk and Javert sat, his back straight against the wood. His foot tapped against the floorboards from impatience. Javert did not like to wait.

He was only seated a few minutes before he heard a commotion below him. Quickly, the inspector stood and hurried over to the paned windows. Craning his neck, he watched as the women of the shop complained loudly to the foreman, pointing to a woman with long brown hair. She was clean, not a woman of the streets, yet she stood, hunched over and pleading, in front of the manager like she had committed a crime. Javert watched, interested.

After a heated argument, the door burst open. A tall man wearing a green velvet coat and tall hat strode in. _Monsieur la Maire._ Seeing the altercation, the man separated the two and began to lecture. As he spoke, he looked up, met Javert's eyes, and paused. Javert gave him a small nod and watched as Madeleine spoke to his foreman and quickly climbed the stairs. Removing his hat, Javert placed it under his arm and stepped away from the door. He felt comfortable in his formality as the door swung open and Madeleine stepped in.

As Javert introduced himself with a bow, he studied him. Brown hair, straight nose, light brown eyes that stared back at him with just as much intensity. This unsettled Javert. He was unused to others meeting his eyes with such ease and curiosity. Javert felt his gaze betray him and flit to the ground as a strange sense of recognition stirred inside him.

"I've arrived at your command. I understand you need a police force. I'm here to bring justice to your city," Javert found himself saying, looking back up at the mayor. He found his own eyes softened when he watched the mayor turn behind him and pick up a rosary.

Madeleine smiled at Javert, a gesture the man of law was quite unused to. He found himself feeling awkward as he stood. The mayor handed him the rosary and he took it, gladly looking down at the black onyx beads. It was a small relief to leave Madeleine's gaze.

"I'm glad you're here," the mayor said, "we've grown so much it's about time we get some decent police officers."

Javert looked up, read his face once more, and couldn't stop himself from blurting, "It seems as if we've met, _Monsieur le Maire." _

Madeleine paused, and Javert suddenly worried that he'd upset the man. He clutched the rosary tighter between his fingers, but Madeleine just shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we have, Inspector."

Javert sniffed and looked down again, awkward from the his outburst and Madeleine's answer. He mentally chided himself for not being able to control his tongue.

"Can you start right away?" Madeleine asked, going behind his desk and shuffling at a few papers.

Javert gave a nod, " Yes, _monsieur, _tonight if it pleases you."

"Excellent."

There was a crashing below them and a frantic voice screamed up the stairs, well heard even through a closed door.

"_Monsieur le Maire! Monsieur le Maire, _help!"

Madeleine sprung up from his desk faster than any man Javert had ever seen. He flung open the door and bolted down the stairs, Javert following quickly behind him as he put his hat back on his head, but a little slower, as not to slip and fall. Outside, the alley way was mud, wet and sloppy from the spring dampness. A wagon had fallen off its axel and trapped a man beneath, an old, frail thing that groaned from the weight of the wood. Javert stood behind and watch the people struggle with the teetering wagon, his eyes darting from person to person.

_Monsieur _Madeleine didn't waste any time. He hurried over to the wagon, his shoes slipping in the mud and gunk of the street. Ordering a bystander to balance the barrels and buckets that sat atop the wagon, Madeleine crouched by the thick wooden plank that jutted out from the base of the carriage. Managing to get it over his shoulder, the mayor let out an animalistic grunt and strained against the wood, the veins in his neck bulging and his eyes screwed shut in concentration. Amazingly, Javert watched as the heavy wagon creaked and groaned upwards. With a yell that shook the surrounding houses, Madeleine heaved the wheels up far enough for someone to pull the old man to safety, covered in mud and shaking from fear, but otherwise unhurt.

Mud clung to the mayors pants and boots as he let the wood plank drop with a harsh thud. Javert's green eyes zeroed in on his face, watching the man as he looked around and hurried to see to the old man. Those brown eyes…

With a realization that almost took the ground from beneath him, Javert knew. He pictured Madeleine with a beard, a scraggly beard and his face covered in scum, and much thinner.

_Valjean…the convict! He's here! There's no mistake…that was the same strength as when he lifted that mast_. Javert's breath quickened with recognition and his fist clenched, tempted to take out the polished wooden baton that sat on his hip. The iron shackles that he carried were hidden beneath his jacket, pressed close to his side.

No, not here. Not with all these people, a riot was not what he wanted. Javert needed to be patient, one step ahead of the convict. He needed the paperwork, paperwork was the iron vise that would clasp itself around Valjean's throat, the chains that would imprison him and hold him in custody.

Meeting Madeleine's eyes, Javert gave him a bow before he slipped away back through the factory, now empty after the women left for the day. He swung himself onto his saddle, his men doing the same, and they rode off to begin a patrol. They split up, yet Javert was always flanked by at least two other officers awaiting orders. He was quiet as they roamed the streets, his mind churning and images of the mayor and Valjean flashing quickly behind his eyes. Soon, the similarities between the two were impossible to deny.

After eight years, Javert had finally found Jean Valjean.

That night, after his first patrol Javert returned back to the inn in which he was staying. Once in his room, Javert quickly set out writing a letter to the Parisian courts informing them of his discovery and suspicions. He wrote quickly and his handwriting left his pen in a barely legible scrawl, angry and restless. As he pressed his ring into the warm sealing wax, Javert stood and placed the letter at his bedside table. He would send it tomorrow, and it should reach Paris well before the end of the week.

But, until then, he had to wait. Had to wait and watch, like a how a wolf waits to find the injured sheep to stray from its flock. Once he knew for sure of Madeleine's secret, Javert would have no mercy when the irons shackled themselves around Valjean's wrists and he was back hauling ships where he belonged.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Hey guys, once again, thanks for all of the reviews, i'm glad you are enjoying it! Little bit of language in this chapter, so beware!**_

XIX: Where the Sun Doesn't Shine

"C'mere, whore…" Gérard slurred, groping out at the wrist of the dirty prostitute three days later. The whore was tall, skinny, with scrabbly brown hair cut close to her head. She pushed him away, refusing him. Gérard grew angry.

"I paid ya, now come here!" the man turned to a bellow and the group of bar patrons behind him hooted and laughed. The early spring was dank around them and piles of slushy, muddy snow clung close to the walls of the taverns and ships. The other prostitutes watched warily, their heads sticking out from behind doors.

"Leave me alone!" the woman screamed, turning and looking at Gérard with fire in her eyes.

"You slut, how dare you talk to me that way," Aimée's father countered, bending over and scooping up two handfuls of filthy snow. He cornered the woman and shoved the coldness down the front of her dress. The prostitute gasped and pushed him away once more, raking the side of his face with her long, dirty nails.

"You little bitch!" Gérard bellowed, taking the prostitute by the arms and holding her still. His grip was harsh and unkind. He pinned her against the side of the tattered ship, transferring her wrists over to his one hand. With his other, he tried to claw at the front of the whore's dress, the cream of her breast shining in the moonlight.

"Halt, what's happening!" boomed a voice behind them. Gérard whirled around, teetering dangerously from his drink. The prostitute slipped through his grasp and tried to run down an alley, but she was blocked by two officers. Gérard peered at the man who spoke, only able to see his silhouette in the darkness. He was tall, holding a lantern in his hand, straight-backed with a wide hat resting atop his head. A beard clung to his jaw, but Gérard could not recognize him in his drunken state. He dismounted his horse and Gérard could hear the clatter of shackles.

"Inspector," he called, his voice slow and thick, "I was walking here, in the dark, with my mates, when this whore came up and attacked me." He pointed to his cheek where the prostitute had left scratches in his blushed flesh.

Javert neared the man, his eyes narrowed as he tried to recognize him. Blonde hair, messy, bloodshot eyes, dirty shadow along his face….

"What is your name, _monsieur?" _Javert asked, trusting his other officers to keep an eye on the scared prostitute.

"Gerard, Gerard Lamenté," the man slurred. Javert's chest tightened and for a moment, the man struggled to breathe. His eyes darted around him, searching for the girl, but then he realized how foolish that would be, searching for a young woman in the whores' corner….

In the whores' corner…Gérard Lamenté was out here with the prostitutes.

Javert's surprise quickly turned to the bile of distaste as he hefted the lantern up. Luckily, the man didn't recognize him.

Javert nodded to the prostitute, "Arrest her," he muttered, grabbing Gérard by the arm and hauling him back to Ombre.

Once the words left his mouth, the whore wailed, a screeching, terrible sound that clawed at his ears and made him turn. She was kneeling in front of him, pleading in the mucky snow and filth, her dress torn and hair no doubt crawling with lice.

"No, _monsieur, _no, please! I have a daughter, I need to send her caretakers money! Please, I can't go to jail, they'll send her to the street! Please, show mercy!" her begging caused Javert to step backwards with distaste. He had seen this before, desperate women to avoid prosecution.

"You are filth," he snarled down to her, nodding at the ground she begged on with a nod of his head, "You live in filth, you work in filth, you are filth. Why should I help a lying prostitute?"

She had no words, but the tears continued. "Please!" Please, I'll-"

"What's going on here?" The mayor hurried into the fray quickly, standing over the cowering prostitute and looking Javert in the eye.

"Nothing that concerns you now, _Monsieur le Maire_," Javert said, holding Gérard by his arm and keeping him hidden in the shadows. He hardly had to do so, the Madeleine's attention was on the cowering prostitute.

Madeleine knelt to her and spoke with hushed tones. The woman looked up and quickly spat in the mayor's face. Javert started forward, baton in hand, yet he was stopped by Madeleine's upraised palm.

"You fired me from your factory! You're the reason I'm out here!" the woman bellowed, " My name is Fantine! You do not remember?"

A look of shock plastered itself across the mayor's face. Javert watched from a distance, standing next to the swaying Gérard, who barely knew what was happening himself. Madeleine muttered hurriedly, reaching out and touching her shoulder with a gloved hand. The woman, Fantine, suddenly changed, looking at the mayor as if she had seen the face of God himself. She murmured something quietly, before she slumped forward, no doubt the cold and damp finally reaching her lungs. Javert sneered and marched forward.

"I must take her to the hospital," Madeleine insisted, scooping her up in his arms as if she were as light as a feather.

"_Monsieur le Maire," _Javert insisted, stepping in front of him and blocking his way. The stars watched from above, silent and waiting, "This woman is a prostitute, she must be arrested."

"Inspector, if you put her in a jail, she will die."

"If that is the price to pay for her crimes then so be-"

"I will not stand aside and watch a helpless woman parish, Inspector. I am taking her to the hospital. I am the mayor of this town, I think you should be reminded of that." Madeleine's tone was dark and possessive.

Javert's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, yet he stood aside regardless as the mayor carried his piece of trash to the hospital. His officers watched him warily, worried of the outburst that would no doubt leave his lips.

However, Javert looked up, "Continue with your patrols. I will be bringing _Monsieur _Lamenté back to the police station. Go."

Quickly, the two officers scuttled away, leaving Javert alone with the father of the woman he had thought he had forgotten. He walked over to Gérard, now sitting in the muck and filth, his legs to wobbly to hold his weight. The man was filthy from head to toe, his eyes glazed and yellowed, his teeth nearly rotted.

"Stand up," Javert growled, heaving him by the arm and grabbing Ombre's reins. He would have to escort Gérard to the jail by foot.

"Where're we going?" the man slurred, trying to keep pace with Javert's quick steps as they picked their way out of the shipyard.

"You are going to file a police report," Javert answered, glancing sideways at the man. He hadn't thought about Gérard Lamenté in years. Haven't thought about his daughter in years….

Javert shook it free from his head. Now he must be stone. Now he must enforce. He would bring Gérard back to the station, question him, and then put him in a holding cell until he decided what to do.

It was hard for him not to flee. The instinct to turn around and ride out of the city back to his cold, uncaring Paris made his legs itch. Gérard had filled Javert's head with clouding memories, memories that were laced with guilt. For eight years, he had swept them to the back of his head, locked them up and ignored their cries for his attention.

The jail was large and empty. A large cell sat in the center of the main room, surrounded by a couple of desks, empty after the clerks had left for the night. Oil lamps were burning and a few candles were dripping wax down their heavy stands. Javert sorted through the ring of keys at his belt, unlocked the door to the metal cage, and thrust Gérard inside.

"Wait, what are you doing?" he retaliated, stumbling for a moment then staggering to the wall, his hands clutching at the bars. "What are you doing! You can't arrest me."

"Quiet," Javert grunted, "You are to stay in here until you sober up, then you will fill out a police report about your attack."

Gérard's eyes narrowed as he struggled with some kind of drunken recognition. "I've seen you before…."

Javert quickly ignored him and turned, stomping back to his office. The candles had smoldered out, leaving the air smelling like stale wax. Javert quickly fiddled with some matches and lit a few oil lamps on the walls. The room glowed and Javert collapsed behind his desk, propping his elbows on the wood and covering his face with his hands. He exhaled loudly. Javert knew that it was only a matter of time before he was discovered. He knew he didn't have the strength to face her eyes, to come to terms with how he had hurt her.

The stone that he had tried so hard to build and maintain started to chip around his fingers, leaving him bare and exposed in his office. The bundles of letters he had burned...so many of them. The girl had continued to write him and he read the desperate hope in his name, looped out across the white of the paper envelope. He didn't notice when the letters stopped coming, didn't bat an eye. He was too invested in the law, the force that began to rule his life.

The pounding at the door of the jail caused him to jump back to attention. Javert stood, his face darkening. When he came out, Gérard was slumped to the ground and snoring loudly, unconscious. The pounding continued.

Thomas found her in the library, reading in a plain dress before she decided to go up to bed. She was reading a book he didn't recognize, thick and old, with a brown cover. The butler cleared his throat before he shuffled forward.

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté, I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news."

She looked up, "What is it?"

Thomas cleared his throat again, a quiet little grating noise. "An officer just stopped by. He said that your father was attacked. He's at the jail now filing a report."

Aimée quickly stood and placed the book on the seat, the pages still open. She pulled her shawl from the coatrack that stood next to the front door and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"He's at the jail now?" she asked Thomas, her voice resonating through the large house.

"Yes, ma'am."

Aimée nodded. "Keep the door unlocked. I don't know when I'll be back." The jail was only a few blocks down the main street, a path lit with street lamps and devoid of criminals. They preferred the shadows and crashing of the docks. Her footsteps were light and quick down the damp cobblestones. The spring night was crisp, reminding her that winter wasn't long gone. The stars twinkled overhead and whispered to each other as they watched her near the jailhouse. She passed the door of her little flower shop, bouquets of roses and tulips on display in the window. Aimée wished she was inside, sweeping or tending to the storage room.

Aimée's fist pounded on the wood when she discovered the handle was locked. "Hello?" she called. She heard the muffled sound of footsteps inside.

"The jail is closed," a gruff voice called behind the wood. "I would suggest you return tomorrow."

"Hello? Yes, I understand, but I need to see my father. I heard he was attacked? Please?"

"I cannot do that."

Anger started to bubble in her chest. "Let me in! I need to see my father! Just let me know he's alright." Aimée was still loyal to the man, overlooking his harsh words and judgmental glares.

The man behind the door paused, and for a moment she thought he had left. She stepped back from the door, craning her neck to try and find some windows along the walls of the large building. All of them were above her head, too tall for her to look through. However, the glow of lamps shone through the glass.

The tumbler of the lock thumped and clunked in front of her. The door opened and she looked into the eyes of the Inspector, his wide hat placed on his head. Aimée felt her feet freeze to the ground, her knees starting to tremble. She backed away from pale green eyes, downturned as they regarded her. His face slammed into her with crushing clarity, his high collar and fitting uniform.

"You…" Aimée's voice was quiet, ragged.

Javert's heart had stopped when he flung the door open with shaking hands. The woman before him was recognizable, slender neck, strong jaw, square shoulders, a strong beauty that resonated deep within her, shining through dark blue eyes, the eyes of the ocean. Her hair shone like dusty gold, tied back in a braid and coiled around her head. Javert's eyes traveled down her arms, wrapped in a shawl, and came to rest on her slender hands, her fingernails dirty, yet beautiful.

The knot that formed in his throat nearly suffocated him.

The stinging slap of her hand against his face nearly shocked him to his knees. Javert felt his hat tumble off his head and he choked out a grunt. Aimée Lamenté glared at him as he straightened himself, ignoring the hat that sat on the floor behind him. His jaw was clenched, the stubble of his beard peppered with gray.

"You struck an officer," he found himself saying, the stone quickly rebuilding after her attack.

She spat on the floor in front of him, the white gob nearly splattering against the toe of his shiny boot. Javert looked down at it then quickly looked up. Before she could react, he grabbed a hold of her wrist and tugged her inside, shutting the door as she struggled and cursed.

"Get off of me! Let go!" Aimée wrenched free and her eyes fell on her father, crumpled in the cell. "Oh my god!" she quickly hurried to him and knelt, momentarily forgetting about Javert. Gérard was snoring gently and reeked of filth and alcohol. Aimée brought a hand to her nose and quickly stood, her worry dissipating when she realized that he was drunk. She whirled, her anger returning as she looked at the man who had left her.

"I'm taking him home," she said.

"You can't do that, he has to file a report."

"Bull shit!" she yelled. Javert blinked at her curse and Gérard snorted in his sleep, yet didn't wake. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been transferred."

Her eyes narrowed as the anger swelled so much it took her words away.

"Come into my office," Javert said stiffly, walking past her and opening the door. Aimée gave a look to her father, but then followed, her arms crossed.

When the door shut behind her she roiled again. "How dare you come here? How dare you!"

"I didn't know you would be here," Javert retaliated, standing behind his desk, thinking it would be a good thing to have a barrier between them.

She looked shocked for a moment, and her anger flashed to hurt. "You didn't know? I wrote you. Told you I would be moving to Montreuil. And yet you didn't know?"

As Javert stood and watched her, his own anger started to brood. How dare she reprimand him? A man of the law? He had cut ties in order to help others, to focus his attention to spreading justice to the city of Paris. She was being greedy, demanding his attention, taking him away from his duty. And now his face stung with the lingering pain of her slap.

"I burned your letters," Javert replied before he could stop himself. His eyes were narrowed as he was consumed by his own stubborn self-righteousness.

He watched as Aimée's face screwed up in pain. Her arms untangled themselves and her eyes began to shine with tears. Her head bowed, suddenly unable to look at him. Javert felt his throat tighten and he realized he words had stabbed her like a knife. He wished to apologize, but he realized it was too late, the damage had been done.

"You burned them…?" she murmured. Javert thought her whisper resonated inside his head like a roar. "You burned them," she said again, this time it wasn't a question.

Javert took a few cautious steps around the desk, trying to be near her. He sighed, disgusted with himself for his outburst and monetarily shaking as he inhaled the scent of vanilla and lilacs, still as vibrant as it was eight years ago. He watched as Aimée brought a hand to her throat, grabbed at the necklace chain that sat there, and yanked hard. The fine gold chain broke and she flung the necklace down to the floor. Unable to meet his eyes, Aimée turned on her heel and fled, running past the cell and throwing open the front door. Before Javert could bring himself to speak again, she was gone in the night.

He looked down at his feet. There, resting on the floor, sat a brass key. With a recognition that twisted his heart and made his eyes pound in his head, he picked it up gently in his hand. Bringing it over to the light of the wall lamp, Javert looked at his old house key. One side was worn and tarnished and he knew it was from resting against Aimée's skin. How long had she worn it? The entirety of the eight years?

"God," Javert muttered, feeling as if the brass of the key was burning his fingers. His head bowed and his temples pounded. The man's gut churned so violently he had to brace himself against the plaster of his office wall. He pressed a hand to his stomach and clenched his eyes shut. "Why have you done this?"

_She hates you now. She hates you. She hates you. You deserve to be hated._

Javert stumbled to his desk, so shaken after his world turned itself into a violent mess of emotion in only a matter of minutes. He violently pushed his papers aside and threw his arms on the top of his desk, resting his forehead down on them. Fists clenched themselves and the key continued to burn.

Guilt choked him, held him tight and whispered cruel words into his ears. Its voice sounded like Aimée's quiet sob.

"_You burned them_?" Never had he heard such heartache. Never in his years of relaying death notifications to grieving mothers and wives, never in his years of watching children cry out in the streets.

Unable to control himself, Javert felt a ragged sob claw its way out of his mouth, followed by the pinpricks of tears.


	20. Chapter 20

XX: Forgiveness is a Slow March

The next morning, Gérard Lamenté filed a report with one of Javert's clerks, he couldn't bring himself to face Aimée's father after what he had done the night before. The Inspector hadn't returned home for sleep, didn't sleep at all. He had stayed in his office until morning, pacing, reading through papers, and just blankly staring at the door in front of his desk. Sometimes, he would expect it to bang open and see Aimée's tear-stained face in front of him, her mouth about to open and scream at him once more.

Winter had struggled to control the thaw, not willing to let go. When Javert finally emerged from his office, he was disappointed to see snowflakes fluttering to the ground. He grabbed his leather overcoat and made his way to the gallows outside. Two men sat kneeled and shivering, tied to the thick posts. Javert stood above hem, looking at the tops of their heads as they trembled and coughed from the returning chill.

"Message for you, Inspector," a clerk said, climbing the stairs and making his way to Javert as he stood on his platform.

"Ready my horse," Javert told the clerk. He looked down at the envelope.

The Parisian seal glared back at him. Correspondence from his letter claiming the discovery of Jean Valjean. Javert quickly tore the letter open and began to read. The crease between his brow deepened and he angrily crumpled the letter in his fists. He had been wrong. Valjean had been captured and was facing the courts of Paris the next day. Which meant Javert was guilty of defamation.

Javert quickly ducked back inside, grabbed a hold of his sabre and tucked the letter back into his pocket. Removing his overcoat, he left the jail, swung himself into Ombre's saddle, and trotted though the road. His face was drawn, serious and full of self-disgust. The hands that held the reigns were clenched in their leather gloves.

This was it. He was done. He had betrayed his life of the law, stepped out of his boundaries and slandered a mayor. What now? Would he return to Toulon? Beg for a job as a guard to make ends meet? Javert felt ashamed for a moment as he thought of Aimée. He had thrown her away in order to pursue this career, tossed her to the side, and now he was finished. She was cast away, sacrificed in order for him to succeed, and now he squandered her pain.

He would find her today, after his job was taken from him. Find her, apologize, kneel, do whatever he could to make her understand that he had made a mistake.

_Another mistake_ , Javert reflected as he rode. _You left her without sending word, burned her letters, and slandered Madeleine…too many mistakes for a true man of justice._

Ombre's footsteps were loud on the cobblestones and soon Javert found himself standing in front of Madeleine's factory. The tongue stuck in his mouth felt as if it had been fashioned of wool. He was stiff as he dismounted, adjusting the sword that he had buckled to his belt and he strode in. The workers were there, stringing away in synchronization.

Javert ignored the foreman and climbed the stairs. His fist pounded on the door and made the windowpanes rattle.

Standing in front of Madeleine, Javert avoided his eyes. He unbuckled his rapier, stared at the wall, and held it out.

"I have slandered you," Javert admitted, "I mistook you for a convict and reported my findings to the Parisian courts. However, it was my mistake. The convict, Jean Valjean, has been captured and is facing the court."

Javert caught the look of shock that swept across his face. He avoided his eyes. "Press charges against me, sir. Take my job away. I am undeserving."

His words were quiet, ashamed as a child's he looked down to his shoes, his eyes nearly closed as he spoke the words. They hurt his mouth, stung as he realized that his career would end today. All he had worked for, gone.

_Monsieur le Maire_ stood and brought a hand to his face, wiping it along his jaw and chin as he thought.

"You say that this convict, Valjean you said, has been captured?"

"Yes. He denies all charges, but that would be expected."

"What courts, Paris?"

"Yes."

The mayor paced, his footsteps heavy against the wood floor. "He denies it?"

"Of course."

Madeleine paused again, his fingers pressed against his mouth as he watched his workers below. Javert didn't like the silence, felt uncomfortable in it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next, permitting himself to study the mayor. The brown eyes were glazed, as if the man's mind was somewhere else. Javert cocked his head to the side confusedly. The mayor turned, and Javert's eyes quickly returned to the floor. The man approached, a little taller than Javert, and extended a hand, gently moving Javert's sabre back to his body.

"You were only doing your duty, Inspector Javert, and that's what I hired you to do. There will be no punishment," Madeleine said, giving the man of the law a cool smile.

"Sir, I slandered you," Javert said, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"You told the courts of your suspicion, nothing more, nothing less. Go, I expect you to be at your patrol tonight." Madeleine dismissed him with a wave of his hand as he turned and walked back behind his desk.

Momentarily shocked, Javert paused for a moment before he clicked his heels, offered a curt bow, and turned to leave. As he was descending the steps, Javert buckled the belt back around his waist. Outside, the snow had stopped, yet the chill still bit. Turns out that the March spring had been squashed by the harsh, unrelenting grip of winter. Ombre snorted, his long tail dusting the snow below him as Javert pulled himself back into the saddle.

He was still Inspector. Madeleine pardoned him of his crime. Javert struggled to understand as he kicked the horse into a walk around the city. If a man had slandered him to a commanding officer, he would've shown no mercy, stripped the liar of rank and authority, thrust him back in the prisons.

Javert didn't understand _Monsieur le Maire, _and he realized he didn't like that. Javert

made his living understanding and reading people. Looking at a liar and seeing past his ruse or reading a victim and discovering if their grief was genuine or faked. He sniffed and frowned, his brow creasing as he rode though on patrol.

Ombre reared and whinnied as a little girl scampered in front of him, nearly colliding with the horse's neck. The girl slipped and skidded to the side of the rode, a flash of red hair and a green dress. Javert, lost in his bewildered thought, was nearly thrown from his saddle. He yanked hard on the horse's reins, muttering darkly to the animal and shouting to try and get it under control.

Angrily, Javert dismounted and stormed over to the child, who had stumbled and almost careened into the gutter. He grabbed the little girl by the arm and hoisted her up, ignoring how her face twisted in pain and fear.

"What do you think you're doing?" he bellowed, tossing the girl to the side. She stepped away from him, frightened and wide-eyed.

"I'm s-sorry," she hiccupped, looking dangerously close to tears.

Javert's temper flared behind his eyes.

"Bellarae, are you alright?" shrieked a voice from the other side of the road. Javert was brushed past by an older woman, her red-hair once fiery, but now laced with smoke. Javert straightened himself and clenched his jaws in annoyance as he looked at the girl, her dress dirty from the filthy snow.

"Is this your child?" he demanded, pointing to the girl that snuggled into her mother's arms.

"Yes," the woman said, her French lilted with an Irish step.

"Keep her out of the street, she was nearly crushed and I was practically thrown from my saddle!" Javert said, his anger not subsiding.

"I'm sorry, sir, she just slipped away from me for a moment, we were grocery shopping," the woman said, standing. Her daughter cowered behind her. As the mother stared, her eyes narrowed as she studied Javert's face. He stood still as stone, Ombre coming up behind him and huffing down on his shoulder.

"Inspector, have we met before?" the woman asked, craning her neck to try and get a closer look.

"No. We have not," Javert stated, grabbing onto Ombre's reigns. People were starting look, glancing at them from their windows and their stands. Javert felt their eyes on the back of his neck and he felt his palms start to itch unpleasantly. "Keep a better hold on your children," he ordered before he backed away and pulled himself back into his saddle. His eyes met with the little girl's once more and he found himself blinking away from them as he spurred Ombre past them.

When he was a few paces past them, the woman's face registered from his memories. Aimée's maid…Anna. That must be her name. Javert turned in his saddle and tried to see the woman again, but she was gone. So the maid had married and had a child. Javert sat taller in his saddle, momentarily relieved. No doubt Aimée had found a husband as well. He had never gotten to look at her finger when she was at the jailhouse. There was no way she would still be unwed after eight years. She was beautiful and her father wouldn't resist a marriage opportunity.

He looked at the buildings as he passed. A café, a barber shop, a bookstore…quaint little shops that bored him with their plain doors and windows. Farther up ahead, he spotted another store, the front painted a pale blue color, like the sky on a clear spring day. As he neared it, he read the ink letters on the window: _Lamenté's Bouquets. _

Javert's fists tightened around the reins.

There were several people inside and they were speaking with a blonde woman, her hair loosely tied back in a fraying braid. Aimée had not spotted him through the window. Quickly, he turned Ombre around and hurried off the way he had come, hoping to the Lord above that she had not seen him.

_So much for apologizing to her, _Javert muttered to himself in his thoughts, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, ashamed of his own cowardice. _You are hopeless._

Javert decided he would go back at sundown, when the shop would be closed and no one around. Then, without an audience, maybe he would be able to muster up enough courage to meet her eyes and confess his wrongdoings. He just hoped that she would have the patience to hear his words. He was no fool, he could see now how much pain he had caused her. She was wearing her mourning dress in his mind's eye, her kohl smeared against her puffy lids. Javert reached up and stuck his hand in his pocket without thinking. When he felt nothing but the spun fabric of his trousers, he quickly pulled it out, feeling silly. He had taken the handkerchief out long ago. For a terrifying moment, he had forgotten where he had put it. As he suddenly remembered, he quickly returned back to the inn where he was staying.

The rooms of the inn were small, damp and smelling of musty wood rot. At the foot of the straw mattress, his large chest sat, closed and latched. Quickly opening the lid, he saw it there, white as a ghost and folded, patiently waiting to be picked up again. Javert knelt next to the chest and reached out to the cloth, cautiously, as if he was afraid the satin would burn his fingers. Two fingertips ghosted over it, the smooth fabric almost as cool as water as it slid over his skin. Carefully, he cradled it in his hand and brought the handkerchief closer to his face. He unfolded it and two stains stared back at him. A red slash of strawberry crème and a black smudge of eye makeup.

Not really aware of what he was doing, Javert brought the handkerchief close to his face and inhaled, expecting to smell lilac and vanilla. The dusty smell of old papers and cedar wood filled his nostrils and he lowered the fabric, feeling like a fool. He thought he heard Aimée's snorting laughter as he folded it and tucked the small item in his pocket. However, the room was empty as he closed the lid and looked around.

* * *

"Bye now, hope you enjoy your flowers," Aimée said, waving to a young suitor as he walked away from her shop with a bundle of roses. She sighed happily for him, he was a foolish boy, maybe a day shy of sixteen, yet he held all the love and determination that he could muster. She removed the rag that was slung over her shoulder and set to work wiping off her counter, wiping the stray leaves and twigs onto the floor so she could sweep them up later. She hummed to herself, a happy drunken jig that her father sang when he would sometimes stumble home at night.

The tough bristles of the broom scrapped against the wood floor as she began to sweep. She was closed for the evening, the daylight starting to grow thick and lazy with the threat of dusk. Outside, she heard the clopping of hooves. She ignored them, facing the ground as she swept and they grew louder. When the tapping of hooves stopped outside her door, she turned and looked out her window. Aimée's heart shot into her throat when she watched Inspector Javert swing himself off his saddle and look around.

Quickly, not knowing what else to do, the woman ducked behind her counter, her broom clacking to the floor.

The bell on her door chimed happily as it obliviously let in the man of Aimée's heartache.

"_Mademoiselle _Lamenté, I wish to speak with you," Javert's voice was not unkind, yet it was unyielding. He heard the rustle of the broom as he picked it up. She bit her lip as she tried her best to avoid him, her back pressed against the under shelves of her countertop.

"_Mademoiselle, _I saw you go behind your counter. Please, speak with me."

Aimée looked around, surprised for a moment the soft pleading tone of his voice. She felt something flutter in her stomach as she slowly began to rise, peeking out at him from behind the edge of the counter, only her eyes and the top of her head visible. She clutched at the side of her countertop with her fingers.

Javert watched her, standing near the door. The wide hat he wore was under his arm and the buttons shone on his high-waisted blue uniform jacket. Tan trousers disappeared under shiny black riding boots. He cocked his head to the side and his brows furrowed as he looked at the top of her head slowly emerge from her hiding place. He could only see her eyes and the bridge of her nose. She looked like a child, hiding from her mother.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice muffled from behind the wood.

Javert felt one of his eyebrows quirk upwards and he heard an exasperated sigh puff from behind the counter She stood fully then, a dirty cloth slung over one shoulder. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a delicate hand, Aimée met his gaze. She shivered a little, but then remembering his words, she turned to stone.

_"I burned your letters."_

"What do you want?" she repeated, her voice now cold.

Javert quickly diverted his eyes, glancing them quickly around the shop. "I…I-" Javert stood shock still as his words cemented his mouth, making it impossible for him to speak. The air hung quietly and he could see the little sparkles of dust floating though the sunlight. Aimée heaved an exasperated sigh and crossed her arms expectantly. Javert forced himself to look at her, to look at her blonde hair and strong jaw. He forced himself to look into her ocean.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," he murmured, his eyes staying locked to hers. He felt so much emotion as he looked at her…eight years' worth of ignored emotions. Memories that he had pushed down and locked away in his head, desperate to become a man of the law, so desperate he had crushed the one person he had cared about.

Aimée stared at him, her mouth slightly open and his words hung in the air around. Blinking, she shook her head slightly, as if snapping herself out of some trance. She walked past him and turned the lock in the door. His body stiffened when she was near, frozen like ice flowed through his veins. His skin crackled underneath the sleeves of his jacket as she walked by him again.

"Sorry for what?" Aimée said, pulling herself up and sitting on her countertop. Her eyes were wary and disbelieving.

Javert drummed his fingers against his hat as he stood. "Please, I-,"

"What are you sorry for?" Aimée said again, her eyes narrowing as she cut him short.

He shut his mouth and looked at her again. He felt the words in his chest, felt them there, waiting to be spoken, yet he struggled to put them together, make them form sentences that would make her understand. Finding that he could think easier when he didn't have to meet her gaze, he looked at his shoes. He watched a small ant scuttle its way across the floor.

"I'm sorry I didn't return your letters. I'm sorry I left you," his eyes closed as guilt made his brows knit together, "I'm sorry I never told you where I was, for not contacting you, for burning your words."

Javert's tone was hushed but intense, forcing himself to look at her once again, he took a step towards her. He felt his voice grow stronger with his words as the stone world he knew and cherished fell away, pushed down by the roiling of the ocean that crashed in her eyes.

"I'm sorry that, for eight years, I allowed myself to forget about you." Her eyes were still dark and Javert felt the last of his control start to wilt away replaced by desperation. How could he make her see?

"I was afraid," Javert admitted.

"It's been eight years," Aimée reminded him, standing but not going near him. "I've been alone for eight years. When I realized that I was wasting my time writing, I cried for an entire night. You crushed me so badly that I struggled to trust the people around me. I wore your key for years," she told him. "And when I found out you burned my letters, I felt so much hate inside of me that it burned my skin."

Javert winced from her words. "Hate?" he whispered, frightened shock plastered against his features.

Aimée's jaws clenched, "Yes, hate. And now that I see you again, those eight years of desertion makes me hate you even more! Did I do something wrong? Did I write something you didn't like?"

Javert quickly backpedaled. "No…no."

"Then why would you cast my letters into the flames? All I did was care about you, Javert."

Javert's knees nearly buckled when his name left her mouth.

Aimée's nose crinkled in distaste and she huffed angrily, "Get out of my shop," she ordered, waving her hand as she turned and began to disappear.

Her words stung like venom to his eyes. No, no this couldn't be happening. He had expected her to be angry with him, but this apology was supposed to change that. She really did hate him…and that hate was enough to suck all hope from his body.

Not knowing what else to do, Javert neared the counter. He reached out and placed a folded piece of fabric on the wood. "Your mother was Melanie Lamenté…" Aimée heard his ragged whisper mutter, "she had brown hair…freckles…and a gap in her teeth."

She looked up and watched him from her spot in the back room. He looked so desperate there, and for the first time she noticed how much older the man looked. His hair and beard were peppered with gray and creases ran through his forehead and between his eyebrows. Light little wrinkles reached out from the corners of his eyes, downturned from his desperation. Javert's mouth hung open after the words left his mouth, almost as if he had surprised himself.

Aimée watched the muscles in his jaw clench as he closed his mouth to speak again. "Aimée…please. Please forgive me." Her name sounded like a sigh as it left him. One last plea.

For a moment, she wanted to forgive him. Run to him and embrace him, feel the stubble of his beard against her temple and inhale the smell of his uniform. But, she felt the memories of her tears again, remembered the way she had felt when she realized he would never write again. The key had felt so comforting against her throat for those eight years, a small hope reminding her that Javert had existed, cared about her, kept her safe during that year of hell.

She neared him, gazing at the man she had cared about so long ago, her childhood fancy and protector. Glancing at the piece of fabric that sat on her counter, Aimée cautiously reached for it. Javert couldn't help but notice her hand was devoid of any wedding bands. He swallowed back his surprise.

Aimée looked down, suddenly unable to look at him. "I want to forgive you, Javert. I want things to go back to how they were, but I'm older now and I know that life doesn't work like that. You hurt me so much…and you admitted that you had tried to forget about me when I would cling to your letters with childish hope."

Javert closed his eyes and felt his mouth turn harshly downwards as her pain raked his ears.

"But I can't. Not now. I've been alone for so long," she walked around the counter and brushed past him, unlocking the door and holding it open. "I think you should leave."

The flower shop crumbled around him as he looked at her, the walls fell to ash and the floor left his feet, making him feel as if he was floating in nothingness. He gave her a slight bow, and left her shop, throwing himself into Ombre's saddle. Snapping the reins harder than he should've, he kicked his horse and shot off at a gallop down her street, the hooves pounding against her temples as she clenched her eyes shut.

The handkerchief watched her as it sat quietly on the worn wood of her counter. Aimée walked slowly over to it and reached out, feeling the cool fabric ghost over her fingers. She scooped it up and saw the two stains, one from her happiness, the other from her pain. He had kept this. Burned her words but kept this trinket. Why?

Clutching the handkerchief to her chest, Aimée felt herself sink to the floor, her back pressed against the wood of her counter. She brought a hand to her face and cried quietly, the tears slowly dripping down her face. Doubt began to fill her. Why didn't she just forgive him? Seeing him again had caused so many memories, happy memories. Holding his hand as they watched the fireworks and feeling his arms tightly curl around her as they said their goodbyes. Aimée even acknowledged that he was better-looking than she had remembered, his age adding a formal handsomeness to his features.

As her world spun around her, Aimée listened to his desperate pleas in the lonely quiet of her closed shop.

"_I'm sorry…."_


	21. Chapter 21

_**Hey guys! some good news and bad news...Good news, we get some interaction in this chapter! YAY! bad news, i'll be out of town for a few days so not many uploads.**_

_**Shout to my reviewers, i always apreciate what you guys have to say! :Castellorizon and Opheliasstory, you guys are awesome!**_

XXI: Escape

That night, Javert had his hands pressed against his temples when the clerk knocked. "What?" he demanded harshly. Aimée's rejection had sucked away his patience.

The desk clerk, a nervous boy barely out of his teens, quickly shuffled in, a letter extended to the Inspector. "Urgent news from Paris, sir. A rider just came and-."

"Yes, just get out."

The wax was barely cooled, the seal smudged and ugly. Javert furrowed his brow and brought the blade of his letter opener underneath the seal with an easy sweep. The writing was messy and urgent, slightly blotted from not being able to dry before the letter was sealed.

His eyes widened as he read. He stood up quickly from his desk, his chair tumbling to the floor behind him. His fists clenched around the letter.

"I knew it," he breathed, his eyes wide as he looked up from the letter. "I KNEW IT!" The words left his mouth as a roar and he slammed his fists atop his desk, papers falling and the inkwells rattling.

The door slammed open and Javert stormed out of it, ignoring the inmates and clerks who watched him with fearful eyes. His sword swayed on his hip and he burst forth from the jail, ignoring the cool nighttime air. Boots spurred into Ombre's side so forcefully, the animal reared and whinnied before shooting off down the road at a sprint.

The night guard at the factory paled when Javert burst inside, his eyes wild and mouth in a snarl. "Where is he?" the Inspector demanded, grabbing a hold of the foreman's shirt and slamming him against the wall. "Where's Madeleine!"

"H-he went to the hospital," the man stuttered, bringing up his hands in surrender.

Javert snarled and let him drop to the floor as he stormed out. The night foreman heard the galloping hooves moments later as he struggled to catch his breath.

* * *

Aimée was walking home when she saw him storm his way into the factory. At first, she didn't recognize him, but as she neared and looked at the dark horse that he abandoned, there was no doubt. He had still kept Ombre after all this time?

_What is Javert doing in the factory after hours?_ Aimée thought, her curiosity getting the better of her as she quickly neared, sticking close to the shadows. She heard a dull thump against the wall as she heard and his voice, angrier than she'd ever heard it. It was a roar, even muffled through the walls. The door pounded open again and Aimée ducked behind some crates, trying to stay hidden. She watched as Javert pulled himself easily into his saddle and galloped away towards the hospital, which sat at the end of the street next to the church.

Drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders, Aimée followed him.

He had gone inside before she reached the door. It was swinging open, forgotten to be shut in the man's intent haste. The Sisters were gone, most likely retreating back to their rooms for the night. She heard heavy footsteps above her and muffled voices. The stairs disappeared under her two at a time as she climbed as quickly as she could. In the doorway, she froze.

The room was lined with beds and the thin sheets that separated them. Two nurses were cowering in the farthest corner, watching what unfurled with wide, frightened eyes. A woman, dirty, thin, and sickly pale lay in the bed near the center of the room, her neck limp as her head lulled to the side. Javert was standing with his back to her, his knees bent and sword drawn, the tip pointing to the chest of….

_Monsieur le Maire?_ Aimée thought, bringing a hand up to the doorframe as she tried to stay out of sight. She had always known the man to be kind, patient with her father and always smiling at her whenever she had to stop by to deliver something. He had even complemented her once as he walked through her store, looking over everything with warm brown eyes.

"Valjean, you are under arrest," Aimée heard Javert growled. Her eyes widened, recognizing the name from Javert's letters. That was Valjean? The escaped convict?

Valjean looked around and leapt at a beam, tugging it free. The wood was heavy, a formidable weapon if need be. Desperation could turn anything into a defense. Javert swung, lunging forward. The blade of his sword cracked against Valjean's wooden beam. Every strike Javert threw, it would meet with wood. Valjean danced away, lighter on his feet than Aimée would've expected. Aimée covered her mouth when Javert swung forward again, mis-stepped, and the wood of Valjean's club thumped against his lower back. Aimée could hear Javert's grunt of pain as he stood, the sheets swaying around him.

Javert's mind was clouded, seething from hate for Valjean and subconsciously pained from Aimée. He wasn't fighting as well as he should've been, and Aimée watched in terror as he quickly tired, Valjean turning to the offensive. There was a crack as the wood slammed against Javert's knee and the man buckled. Aimée watched in horror as Valjean slammed the side of the board into Javert's head and he collapsed to the floor.

"Aimée's scream frightened herself. Valjean looked up, his eyes wide and fearful. He glanced down in horror, realizing what he had done. Aimée rushed inside, her eyesight blurry from shock. Valjean quickly backed away, desperately searching for an escape route. He found one in the form of the open window.

"What have you done!?" Aimée screamed behind. Her words were too slow…Valjean had disappeared.

There was a groan at her feet and Aimée quickly knelt, rolling Javert over so he rested on the flat of his back. Blood trickled from the side of his head and his eyes were closed, mouth open and slack. She bent over him, her ear close to his mouth. When she felt the warm puff of his breath on the side of her face, she quickly stood and grabbed a folded rag that rested on the bed nearest her. Pressing it to the side of Javert's head, she gazed down at him worriedly.

"Javert? Can you hear me?"

The eyelids fluttered, but they did not open and she could see just the whites underneath. She pressed her palm to his forehead and then to the other side of his face. She couldn't help but shiver as his skin met with hers. The nurses were gone, no doubt hurrying to the church.

_Lot of good they are,_ Aimée thought to herself when she realized she was alone to try and care for Javert. Desperate to help him, she undid his stiff collar, hoping it would allow him to breathe better. When she was confident that his bleeding had stopped, she wiped up the blood and tossed the rag aside. It was a shallow wound, but it had been placed in just the right spot.

Aimée placed both of her hands on the sides of his face, cradling his head. The man's face was slack, his eyes still closed.

"Please, Javert…please wake up." She had heard terrifying stories of men who had been killed by just one blow to the head. She hoped to God that Javert was just unconscious. She had felt his breath, but it was shallow.

"I need you to wake up," she said, frightened. Kneeling over him, she pressed both of her hands to his shoulders and shook him. "I need you to wake up."

Footsteps frightened her as someone approached. It was the town priest, an older man, yet still youthful in his years with blonde hair and blue eyes. "What happened here?" he asked, his hand fluttering in front of him nervously.

"The Inspector was attacked, please, help me get him on a bed," Aimée said quickly. With a little bit of awkward moving, the two were able to lay him on the soft hospital mattress, his head resting back on a feather pillow.

"I'll send for water," the Father said, turning and leaving.

Aimée sat next to Javert, her chair in the center of the left side. His hand was resting slack against the mattress, fingers curled.

_All he wanted was your forgiveness,_ she thought, looking at his fingers and wondering if they were still rough. _You know that apology was genuine. You saw the pain in his eyes when you asked him to leave. _

Softly, her fingers curled around his. They were slack in his unconsciousness, but she found her own hand tightening around his fingers. They were still rough, but warm and she found herself smiling as she sat with him. Tracing her thumb along his thick knuckles, she heard herself whispering, "I forgive you."

Suddenly, exhaustion washed over her. Mental, emotional, and physical. She felt her head lull forward. Looking at his face, she watched his eyes, closed and oblivious to what was happening around him. Exhaling a puff of a sigh, Aimée leaned forward and rested her forehead against Javert's side, the rising and falling of his steady breathing making her eyelids feel heavy.

When the Father returned with water, he didn't even bat an eye at the strange coupling. He set it down at the side of the bed and quickly left.

* * *

The first thing Javert noticed in the darkness was the pain. The side of his head felt as if it had been shot through with cannon. He groaned, feeling his eyes scrunch from the ache. He cracked them open and found that his surroundings were blurry, but he could pick up on the dim candlelight. He flexed the fingers of his hand, but found it odd when one of his hands flexed around an object, soft and warm and delicate.

Moving his fingers over the object in his grip, he felt them ghost over smooth skin. His brow furrowing in confusion, he trailed them along what felt like fingers. He flipped it over and softly touched the palm beneath. Who's hand was this?

As his vision sharpened, Javert realized he was in the hospital. Sheets hung around him, keeping him in sort of an enclosed cubby. He tried to lift his head upwards, but it felt heavy and cumbersome. When he moved, he felt a light weight on his side. He stood shock still. Someone was there with him. Forcing himself to look down, Javert saw a head with golden hair resting on his chest. Golden hair? He lifted his arm and saw that a pale hand was entwined with his.

Suddenly, his throat parched and he realized.

Aimée.

How did she get here? What had she seen? Valjean, where was Valjean? What had happened?

Javert looked back down at her, her face turned away from him, her back gently rising and falling. The woman was asleep. Javert quickly stiffened, realizing how blatantly inappropriate this must look. He looked around as best he could and saw no one around him.

Javert's brow suddenly furrowed, when he had left her in the flower shop, she had hated him. Why was she here now? He heaved a sigh and felt the weight of her head on his body. Warmth started to spread through him, momentarily dulling out the pain and frustration.

"_I wish things could go back to how they were,_" Javert heard her say, her voice a song in his head.

She would wake up and hate him again, he knew this would happen. He had half a mind to speak to her, snap her awake and have things get underway. It would be easier for him that way, the quiet that filled the air calmed him and seeing her vulnerable against him tugged at his heart.

Weakness filled him and Javert realized he couldn't bring himself to wake her.

Aimée opened her eyes slowly. Her neck twinged and she lifted it, looking around. The hospital stared back. As she lifted her head, a searching touch ran its way along one of her fingers. She looked down and saw Javert's hand entwined with her own. Knowing he was awake, knowing that he had seen her resting against him, Aimée turned and met his eyes.

Green met blue and the silence flourished.

"What happened?" Javert asked softly, the roar that Aimée had heard earlier replaced by a gentle rumble.

She swallowed. "I saw you riding. I followed you."

"What did you see?"

"You, Valjean…everything."

Javert was quiet.

"I saw him hit you."

Javert's eyes searched her face and he tightened his fingers around her. "You are unharmed?"

Aimée gave him a small little smile that made his lungs clench. She had so much power over him. "I'm fine."

He looked relieved. "Where is Valjean?"

"I don't know… he jumped out the window."

"I must find him." Javert struggled to sit up, but he felt a pain behind his knees and his head split. A light pressure on his shoulders when Aimée gently pushed him back down onto the hospital bed. He watched her warily, wondering when her outburst would come.

But she was quiet, watching him intently, her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. Her words surprised him when she spoke.

"I've forgiven you."

Javert felt his jaw go slack. The relief he felt was nearly numbing. He couldn't help himself from reaching up to her, a sick man reaching for the angel of redemption. Aimée leaned forward and let his big palm cradle the side of her face. Her cheek was baby smooth as his rough palm gently cupped around it and Javert managed to smile at her.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Bringing up her own hand, she pressed it against his, holding him there against her face. "I'm sorry this happened to you," she said.

"Valjean is dangerous, I'll find him."

Aimée gently pulled Javert's hand away from her cheek and he managed to sit up. "Does…does that mean you're going to leave again?"

Javert looked down. "Aimée…I don't know. I won't lie to you."

He heard her sniff. "I just found you…."

With an instinct he didn't know he possessed, Javert stood, ignoring the pain in his head and knees, and swept her up into his arms. "Shh…" he whispered as he felt her arms wrap around him in return. She reached up and cradled the back of his head in her hand, her fingers in his hair. He closed his eyes, the scent of vanilla and lilac almost overpowering. "I'll search in Paris for a few days…but then I will return. If I leave, I will tell you."

"I've heard your promises before, Javert," Aimée whispered, unable to stop herself.

Javert sighed and pulled her away from him, keeping both hands on her shoulders. He lowered his head, making sure to meet his eyes. In their closeness Aimée could smell the smoke of his fireplace and the tang of shoe polish. She looked over his face, suddenly absorbed in his green eyes. Her heart flipped as she saw again how handsome he was to her.

"I will never hurt you again."

Aimée nodded. "I believe you."

Javert gave her a nod but did not smile. Instead, he slid his hands upwards to cradle her face. Aimée froze, eyes wide and body full of crackling shock. He leaned forward and pressed a long kiss on her forehead. Aimée closed her eyes and sighed, feeling the brush of his stubble and the warmth of his hands. When he pulled her away and held her close again, Aimée lost herself in the tight cocoon of protectiveness. She felt Javert sigh.

"You change me in an instant, _mademoiselle,_" she heard him murmur. "You break my stone."


	22. Chapter 22

_**Hi guys! I'm back! Reviews always welcome, don't be shy, enjoy**_

XXII: Shock

Back at her home, Aimée hardly slept. Javert had left her to go to the jail and pack for a couple nights in Paris, to check the border and checkpoints of the city. Before Aimée knew it, the sun was creeping in her window.

And with dawn came conflict.

"What do you mean you've been fired?" Aimée asked, standing in the kitchen as she watched her father, all red-faced and yellowed eyes.

"Madeleine's left, who's to run the factory? We're all fired!" he screamed at his daughter, wondering how on earth the girl could be that dense.

"Well, you're in charge of his money, aren't you? Couldn't you just take over the factory?"

"I'm a man of finance, not management."

"Then hire someone."

"There's too much paperwork…unless…." Gérard burst up from his chair in the dining room. He hurried to the coatrack and pulled the overcoat over his shoulders. "I'm going back to Toulon. Beaudet, he'll know someone. If anything else, the old man can buy the factory and it'll just operate. Why didn't I think of this before?"

Aimée watched in surprise as her father disappeared before her very eyes, off to find a carriage. She stood in the home, by herself. Who knew when Gérard would be back? Thomas had gone home, the butler had refused to work on Sundays, and the house creaked emptily, almost like a growling stomach.

Shaking her head free of her father's sudden abandonment, Aimée went to the library. She undid the braid and her hair cascaded downwards in lazy waves, gently curling around her face and gliding over her shoulders. She picked up a book and tried to read, but her mind whirled too much to comprehend the words. Aimée's forehead still prickled with the warmth of Javert's lips and the scratch of his beard. When she closed her eyes, she could feel the rough heat of his hands cradling her jaw and the scent of shoe polish and wood smoke filled her nostrils, even in the pampered halls of her house. Javert's words rumbled in her ears and shook her heart.

There was a tentative knock on the door and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Pulling a shawl over her shoulders, Aimée hurried to the door. Javert stood in the doorway, square-shouldered and neat, his hat perched atop his head and his buttons polished.

"Uh, come in," she said, momentarily surprised by seeing him at her home. Regardless, she smiled at him and Javert swallowed.

"I'm sorry I came unannounced," he said hurriedly, stepping inside as Aimée shut the door behind him. "I found your address in the files."

"Oh, well, here. We can go in the library," Aimée said as Javert removed his hat and held it beneath his arm. "Can I get you anything to drink? Father's out and our butler doesn't work Sundays."

Javert felt his mouth dry as he realized he was alone with Aimée. He began to worry that this would be inappropriate. He sat down in the chair a little stiffly as he denied Aimée's offer. He looked around, surprised to see the woman lived in such wealth. The factory had indeed been kind to the Lamenté's, giving them a home far too big for them and a full pantry.

The morning was still early and the streets outside were quiet. Aimée found herself liking the way Javert looked sitting on a chair in her home.

"I'm leaving in an hour," Javert announced formally, swiping the small smile off Aimée's face. Javert noticed her frown and he quickly spoke again. "I will be back tomorrow night or the morning after that."

"Back here?"

"Yes."

"Good…"

Javert barely heard the word escape Aimée's lips. He felt warm.

Aimée sat on the sofa across from him, looking at her hands as she fiddled with her thumbs and bit her lip. Javert's eyebrows furrowed as he watched her, entranced by her habits. Finally, she looked up at him with her blue eyes and he found himself blinking.

Motioning with her hand, she said, "You can sit by me, if you want."

With a feeling of falling, Javert got up and neared her. He stood for a moment, watching her once more, before he settled on the other end of the sofa, a safe distance away from her. Aimée swiveled where she sat, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her back on the armrest. Her small toes sat inches away from Javert's leg.

"I can't help but feel scared, Javert."

He lowered his head. "I know."

She was silent for a moment. It was her turn to watch him. She noticed how tight his jaw was, how dark the bags under his eyes were. Aimée grew concerned.

"Javert," she said, folding her legs under her and leaning forward, placing a hand on the side of his face and turning it so he looked at her. "Have you been sleeping?"

He cocked his head to the side and closed his eyes in a long, slow blink. "I have not slept since I met you at the jail, _mademoiselle," _he said, his voice thick.

"Javert, that was two days ago!" she exclaimed.

"Yes."

She thought for a moment, "You need to at least have a nap before you leave."

"I'll sleep in the carriage."

"No, you're leaving for Paris, I want to make sure you have at least a little rest. I didn't sleep much either, not after last night," the woman admitted, biting her lip as she drew her hand away from his face.

Javert's gaze turned curious.

Then, without warning, Aimée scooted closer to him and lifted his arm. She then leaned into his side, resting her head against his collar, her forehead nestled underneath his chin. Aimée felt him stiffen immediately, turned to stone.

"It's ok," she said.

Javert forced himself to relax against the back of the sofa, and he looked down at her, wondering if she felt the thumping of his heart. His arm draped itself across Aimée's shoulders, almost as if the action was instinct. The cushions behind him were comfortable and Aimée's body was warm as it pressed itself against him. The muscles in his back and neck gradually loosened, as if they were melting away. Leaning his head back against the cushion, Javert closed his eyes and allowed his breathing to slow.

Aimée's own eyes were closed as she felt him slowly start to relax around her. She felt happy, thinking that she was comforting him and allowing him to rest. She would shyly admit that she enjoyed the close contact probably more than he did, but she pushed the thought out of her head. His breathing slowed and she could hear the steady, rhythmic thump beneath his uniform. Assuming he was now asleep, Aimée slowly brought up a hand and fiddled with one of his buttons.

"What are you doing?" he asked, not lifting his head or opening his eyes. Aimée jumped slightly from his voice and sat up, leaning away.

"Nothing, I was just…sorry," she quickly muttered, feeling a blush start to creep up her neck. Why was she acting so foolish?

He grunted from where he sat and Aimée felt the arm that was relaxed against her shoulder tighten, pulling her to him again. She nestled back into Javert's side and sat quietly until she started to hear him snore. The fabric of his coat was a little coarse as it pressed against her face and she could feel his chest rise with every deep breath. Aimée's eyes flitted closed and she sighed deeply, letting the man's smell fill her senses, much sharper than her memories.

Soon, they were both asleep.

When Javert woke, late morning light was shining into the library. Looking at the clock on the mantle he realized that his carriage would be leaving in twenty minutes. He groaned and craned his neck backwards as he stretched his arms. Javert looked down at the woman that was curled into him. Her hair was splayed down her back, cascading downwards in gold waves. Her breath was heavy with sleep. She looked so young and small, like a little girl. He couldn't help but smile and he ran his hand over her hair, looking over the library. He began to worry as he thought about leaving her again. It was only for a day, maybe two…he'd return.

_What if you get relocated? You can't leave her again…. What does it matter? I'm not her suitor, just her friend. She's far too young, nearly twenty years my junior. _His thoughts roared in his head and he couldn't take it anymore. Javert gently shook her awake, almost afraid to move her.

After a stretch of dreamless dozing, Aimée felt her pillow move under her. She groaned a little, fussing like a child, and buried her face deep in the fabric. It felt firmer than she remembered.

"Aimée," her bed rumbled beneath her, "I must go."

Her brow furrowed as she wondered why it was speaking to her. Then, as her grogginess slowly started to wean away, she realized where she had been sleeping.

Aimée bolted upwards, looking at Javert. For once, the man was smiling, a rare and beautiful sight to see. The grin reached upwards and touched his eyes, making them crinkle and spark like pale emeralds. He looked so full of life, not like the stern, stiff officer she was used to. Aimée's breath momentarily left her as she studied him.

"You look different," she whispered, not really knowing that the words were leaving her.

Javert swallowed and looked at her, all stormy eyes, rosy cheeks, and golden hair. He wanted to touch her face, cradle it in his hands, feel the soft skin of her cheek kissing his thumb. Her hair was like silk, his fingers would glide right through it if Javert could muster up enough courage to reach forward.

Aimée watched the smile fall from Javert's face. The crease between his eyebrows returned and she felt confused. She moved her knees up to the couch, tucking them underneath her as she sat. Cocking her head to the side, she spoke to him.

"What's wrong?" Then, like an oncoming storm, worry started to thrive. "You _**are **_coming back, right? Right?"

The woman was beautiful in her worry, blustery eyes wide and mouth slightly open in anticipation, waiting to speak after his words. Javert didn't speak. Instead, he reached out and graced his thumb over Aimée's cheekbone. The skin there was as soft as a rose petal. He found himself leaning forward, studying her closely. If he were to be relocated, he would never forgive himself if her face left his memory.

"Javert?" Aimée asked, really starting to worry because of his quietness. It swarmed inside her, whispering horrible things in her ears and making her heart skip. She felt his fingers reach to the back of her head and thread through her hair. Her eyes couldn't help but flutter closed as she felt how cautious his touch was, gentle and kind. Javert pulled her to him, meeting her forehead with his.

"Aimée, I will return in two days…but I'm afraid after that I don't know. If Valjean enters the city…I will stay there. I can't let him get away." Her sharp inhale of breath shot through him. All he could do was breathe in her lilac and vanilla before he spoke again. "But…whatever I do, I will tell you. I could never hurt you again."

Confession tore at his throat like a choking smoke, and the fear of rejection burned behind his closed eyes.

Javert felt her sigh, felt the softness of her forehead pressed to his. They were so close, sharing the air between them.

Aimée felt numb, a warm numb that froze her to the spot as her mind reeled. He had broken promises to her before, but now…she knew they were true. His voice sounded like a low grumble, wrought with truth and emotion. This new Javert was starting to show more and more when the two were together.

The next move was so daring, it surprised even her.

She closed the distance between them and brushed her lips against his. After a moment or two, she pulled away a fraction of an inch, ignoring the way Javert had stiffened. She met his eyes and they questioned her, the crease returning and his lips in a confused frown. Biting her lip, the blush that crept up her neck was ferocious.

"I-I really shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. You should probably-"

But her words were cut off abruptly by two strong hands holding her face and tipping it upwards. Javert's lips crashed over hers and she felt a fire course through them, so intense her eyes widened before she felt them flutter shut. Heat flared in her belly and she felt her cheeks flush. Javert's beard scratched at her face and she felt his thumb glide over her skin, sending chills down her neck. Aimée's eyes closed as their lips moved together, her hand coming up and resting at the side of his face, his short sideburn bristling against her palm. Power coursed through him, she could feel it, yet Javert was gentle with his kiss, almost begging her to understand something he couldn't say.

He broke away far too soon, his breath heavy, and he quickly stood up, stiff and rigid in his surprise. Aimée watched him from her seat on the couch, too shocked to even move. Javert's head was spinning far too fast for his comfort and he looked around, trying to find something to say or do.

"Aimée, I..." his words were lost. His mouth still burned from Aimée's lips and he could feel the shadow of the kiss as he stood. The heart in his chest was pounding so strongly against his ribs, thumping like a drum. Javert looked at her, looked at her wide eyes and soft petal skin. The young woman was as still as stone on the couch, staring back at him with an emotion that he couldn't place.

The shock of the moment suddenly lifted and Javert assessed the situation. He had kissed her. Not a gentle goodbye peck, but a searing kiss that stole the breath from his very lungs. Her lips had felt like heaven and he had drowned in lilac and vanilla.

Averting his eyes to the floor, he gave her a curt bow and quickly left the house, hurrying and disappearing through the morning crowd. The people swarmed around him, oblivious to what he had just done. The mask that covered his face was flawless, harsh and cold as his mind reeled. Fists clenched at his sides and he blinked, his knees feeling weak as he walked.

The carriage was already waiting for him in front of the jailhouse. Holding a hand up to the coachman, Javert quickly retrieved a bag with a spare set of clothes from his office. The door opened with a quiet click. Tossing the bag in he tapped the wood of the carriage and the tall wheels started to roll as he settled on the cushioned bench. Javert's head pounded and he leaned forward, his head bowed and hands pressed against his temples. He couldn't stop himself from cautiously tasting his lips and the ghost of Aimée drifted into his mouth.

_She's going to hate you again,_ he told himself. _She's so much younger than you. So young. _

Some glimmer of an argument rose up in the back of his mind as the carriage swayed down the road. It grew like a small flame, catching tinder and glowing in the darkness. His eyes closed and the crease formed between his brows. With a lightness Javert was unused to, the words rang in his head.

_She kissed you back._

* * *

Her fingers were cool against her lips as she pressed them to her mouth. What had just happened? Was this a dream?

Javert had kissed her, gently but with a sense of urgency and longing that shivered up her spine when she thought of it. Aimée closed her eyes as she sat, trying desperately to relive every moment before he had broken away. Javert had left so abruptly…she had no time to speak. Words probably wouldn't have left her anyway, the kiss had left her mind blank, a sheering white pane that gradually lifted once Javert left.

Still thinking about the tickling scratch of his beard against her face, Aimée stood and made her way to the kitchen. Methodically, she began to make tea. Her hands shook slightly as she lifted the kettle. Standing in the kitchen, she stared at nothingness and tried to sort out what had just happened as she waited for the water to boil. When the kettle squealed, she jumped and hurried to remove it from the heat.

Once her tea was made, she knelt below and recovered a small flask from a hidden shelf. Filled with the brandy that had become her favorite, along with Anna's, she placed a healthy dose inside her teacup and stirred. The searing heat that wormed its way down her mouth and throat when she drank did not remove the feel of his kiss from her lips.

Stormy blue eyes closed as she sipped again in the quiet kitchen. The morning had grown late and warm sunlight shined in. Javert's hands had been so strong when he lifted her face. Aimée smiled against the rim of her cup. Her heart was aflutter and she almost laughed, biting her lip. Happiness budded inside of her, coursed through her veins like liquid gold.


	23. Chapter 23

_**Hey Guys, sorry for the wait! Long chapter! Thanks for reading! **_

_**NOTE: In my story, Javert doesn't know about Cosette, just thought i should let you guys know that**_

XXIII: Fate Has a Cruel Hand

Javert's eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the long lines of carriages. He'd been sitting out against the Paris walls for hours, dusk long since come and gone. Stars twinkled above him, begging for his attention, yet he watched the line slowly move. The horse beneath him shifted, a large black gelding the city of Paris loaned him for the moment. Traveling from Montreuil to Paris was a little too far for Ombre to take him. Javert found himself thinking about his horse like a security blanket, a solid reason to return to the city at least once more. To return to Aimée.

"Next!" the officer to his left called, stepping towards the coach, the sleek rifle long and dark as it hung behind his shoulder. A slender hand wearing a white glove opened the carriage door. A rich woman meeting a suitor, or seeing to some affair that may not be in the most courteous of circumstances.

Javert felt his hand tighten on the reigns and he began to approach, looking down at his officer. The man was barely out of his twenties and stuttering in front of the woman like an idiot.

Javert watched him struggle, his distaste growing with every passing second.

He was so engrossed he didn't notice the carriage further down the line. Quietly, a door opened. Javert, his attention elsewhere, didn't see the man who was holding a small bundle slip out of the door and hurry towards the darkness.

The calls from the other watchmen snapped Javert's head up, looking around. He only had moments before he saw the shadow of a man disappear down the wall. The muscles in his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.

"VALJEAN!" he roared, his voice tearing at the night mercilessly. He kicked his horse and galloping inside the city gate. He would catch the coward on the other side, stop him in his tracks. The convict would be expecting someone to chase him from the outside, not cut him off.

Hooves pounded on the cobblestones. The sharp noise pounded with his blood in his ears. Where was he? Where was he?

_Like a snake in tall grass, _Javert thought, his eyes darting from dark alleyway to stacks of crates.

There! Valjean had slipped around the entrance of a large building, the marble columns glowing like white trees in the moonlight. He was moving slowly, tugging at a small child.

_Why did he have a child?_

Javert felt anger blossom within him. Without a second thought, he steered his horse up the shallow marble steps and pounded after Valjean. Javert's green eyes turned to harsh stone as he neared him, pounding and pounding, almost at the child's heels.

"Valjean!" Javert roared again, "you coward!"

Javert wasn't quick enough to stop Valjean from scooping up the little girl and disappearing over the balcony. The horse skidded to a stop from the sudden barrier and Javert snarled, a ferocious roar pressing though his teeth. He turned the horse and spurred it onwards, sparks left by the hooves. Down the stairs it went, a wonder it didn't trip. Behind the building sat a winding alley, too narrow for the broad gelding to press through. Without hesitating, Javert swung himself from the saddle and pressed his way inwards.

The walls of houses and sleek buildings rose above him, winding and turning like a high maze. He could hear rustling ahead of him, an occasional huff of breath, and he hurried onwards. Intensity radiated off him like heat from a fire and his jaw ached from being clenched so tightly.

"Valjean! I know you're here!" Javert bellowed, twisting his way around corners and ducking around crates. His chest began to tighten from shortness of breath and his voice was raspy from fury. The night walls pressed against him, pushing his shoulders together.

Then, suddenly and abruptly, the maze ended in a solid brick wall. There was no sign of Valjean or his follower. Javert stepped forward and beat his fists against the stone. A painful jolt shot down his wrists and he snarled again, his face screwed up from wrath.

"Valjean, I will find you!" Javert roared, the stars themselves shrinking from his words. "You're in Paris now, my city!"

It was a lie, but it tasted sweet coming from his mouth. _His _city. The city he had known for eight years. It was only a matter of time before the foolish convict would stumble across Javert's path once again.

* * *

"He did what!?" Anna exclaimed, leaning backwards where she sat and pressing two hands up to her face. "Oh my lord!"

"Shh, keep your voice down!" Aimée hushed, looking up towards her door for any interruption. The two women were curled up on her bed like young girls. Arthur had taken Bellarae to the bakery to buy some sweets, and then a walk around town, leaving Anna to visit with Aimée. Wrapped up in her room, full of old memories, Aimée had confessed her kiss to Anna. The woman was aghast, shock written over her pretty Irish face.

"Aimée, he kissed you! After all this time!"

Aimée's cheeks started to redden and she felt the air grow stuffy around her.

"How was it?" Anna asked eagerly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the once fiery red smoldering to an older auburn.

"What?"

"You heard me, what was it like? The first time I kissed Arthur I felt like I was floating."

Aimée cast her eyes downwards to her lap and smiled. "It was…It was nice."

Anna gave a teasing whistle and leaned against Aimée's headboard. "He looks like he could be a good kisser. All strong and bearded…."

The look that shot from Aimée's eyes could've shocked a statue. But, she faltered and let out an unladylike snort of laughter. "It was nice," she found herself saying again, willing herself to be swept up in the recent memory of Javert's lips pressed against hers. It was only hours ago that very morning, and it seemed fresh and crisp.

"What will your father say?" Anna asked, shattering her friend back to reality.

Aimée had not thought about her father. She flopped backwards on her mattress and stared at the cealing above. She felt Anna's eyes on her. "I don't know."

"Probably mutter about his age…but who cares. Odder engagements have happened, even back in Toulon."

"We're not engaged Anna, not even courting. He just gave me a kiss, is all," Aimée grumbled.

The afternoon sun was shining in through the window, the bright yellowness warming the two women as they gossiped and dreamed. Aimée pushed the thought of her father to the back of her head, not wanting to spoil the happiness that filled her stomach and flitted up her throat every time she breathed. She glowed in her happiness, her smile a white gleam and cheeks rosy. The laughter that surrounded the bed was strong, immune to the past cruelties that lurked just behind her.

As Anna watched her, she was amazed at how much her friend resembled her mother. Melanie's cheekbones and strong, yet elegant, jaw brought a quiet beauty to Aimée's face, and those eyes, sparkling in happiness, were the very same. A ghost shining through to the present.

"It's good to finally see you happy, sweet Aimée," Anna said, placing a hand on her stomach as she spoke. She liked to pretend she could feel the kick of her second child, but she knew it was far too soon for that.

"I've been happy before, Anna," Aimée said, craning her neck to look at her Irish sister.

"Skin-deep happiness doesn't count, dear," Anna said, "This, what you are now, is nothing like you were before. You're like the sun."

Aimée's heart stirred and she felt her eyes glisten, but she didn't quite know why.

"Are you positive you all have to leave in the morning?" Aimée asked.

"Sadly, yes. The house needs tending and Bellarae must start lessons soon."

"Well…Thomas is out…before you leave would you like to help me cook dinner? Then we all can eat together before you take off."

Anna smiled and stood up, emitting a groan as she did so. "Alright. Let's cook."

* * *

She swept the breadcrumbs from the counter idly, sipping at a glass of wine as the house creaked hungrily around her, big and empty. The traces of laughter and cheer still hung in the air like lazy smoke and Aimée looked around the kitchen. Potato peels were piled in the waste bucket and the sharpness of rosemary mingled with the smoothness of butter and honey. Her stomach felt full and she twinkled with a warm contentment. The wine, a full and oaky red, made her eyelids droop lower with every sip and she found herself yawning.

Dousing the lamp in the kitchen, Aimée made her way to the dining room and picked up a candle in order to maneuver her way back up to her room. She forced herself to pour water and wash her face, then brush her hair, even though her bed was enticing her just to lie down and sleep. The bristles of her brush eventually glided through her hair and she quickly braided it, the coil draping over one shoulder. As Aimée crawled underneath her covers, she turned her head and peered out the window across the room. Stars twinkled brightly at her, a little smudged in places from sparse nighttime clouds. Anna's words rang though her head.

"_You're like the sun."_

Nestling further down in her covers, Aimée smiled. She was a little sad to see her friend and her family go away again, but there were always letters, and it was so nice to sit up in her room like old times. Happiness filled her wholly, from the top of her head down to her toes. She hoped Javert would return the next night.

Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep with the sound of her own laughter ringing through her ears.

* * *

The carriage swayed and Javert's head bounced off the wood, snapping him awake with a painful crack. He scowled as he rubbed his sore temple. He then leaned forward to peer out the window, only to find the bare fields of the French countryside washed in the leaching gray light of dusk.

Leaning back, Javert was painfully aware of the letter in his jacket pocket, as heavy as a sack of boulders. It was a newly updated warrant for Jean Valjean. Once the Parisian courts heard he was in their city, scuttling and hiding in the darkened alleys, they had written quite a harsh sentencing letter, one that would bring him directly to the gallows.

But, with this new warrant, the judges gave him a choice as they stared down at him with their bulbous black hats and wiry glasses, continue in Montreuil or come back to Paris. The tickling lightness that had settled in his gut once he left Aimée's home the previous morning was sucked up, replaced by a heavy dejection. Javert had only just found her. He was still exposed from where his stone had come crumbling down, and now he would have to build it back up and make a choice. Aimée seemed to be cursed, bringing him hope for something that could never be his.

_The world thrives on injustice,_ Javert thought up to the heavens, hoping that his words found the ears of God. _On crushing the happiness of others to hide its own pain._ His head rested back. Thoughts slammed and crashed into each other in his head, drowning him in spinning chaos. Javert tried his best to clear his head, sort out one thing from the next. Then, like solid ground in a coursing river, the memory of Aimée's lips lightly brushing against his snapped behind his eyes.

Javert felt his shoulders relax and the world around him fade away and he watched the memory. Her oceanic eyes, so unsure and apologetic afterwards, swallowed him whole and he had lost himself in them. Her lips, so petal soft against his, slowed his mind go a grinding halt and there, in the woman's own library, Javert felt himself lose some of his control.

Aimée's stuttering words snapped him out of his shock and a fire filled him as he looked at her, so beautiful, even with her hair undone and face bare of powders and creams. For a harsh second, Javert thought of those white letters turning black in the flames of his fireplace. His gut twisted and he found himself capturing her face in his hands.

Javert had kissed women before, but no one had filled him with so much hope and vulnerability like Aimée had. He was lost to her, desperately trying to understand why one woman could suck the breath from his lungs and make his knees shake. He felt his heart leap when he realized she was kissing him back, moving her lips against his in a gentle caress. Javert's face burned where she pressed her hand up against it and for once in his life, Javert felt whole.

_Stop. Stop. You have to stop now, _he told himself. _You have to realize what you are doing._

That was when he stood to leave.

Javert willed himself a small smile in the carriage, the night new around him and crickets starting to stir. Aimée Lamenté filled his head and she beat away the loneliness that had surrounded him for so many years. She reminded him of a fierce little lioness.

Lost in his musings, Javert didn't really realize as the countryside was replaced by the buildings of Montreuil. When the carriage slowed, he bent over and grabbed the overnight bag he had brought with him. The door opened with a snap and he stepped out in front of the jail. He paid the coachman and the carriage rolled off.

Javert nearly jumped when he saw the figure of Aimée sitting on the steps. She looked up at him, her hair curled loosely around her face. She looked so small on the steps, yet it was obvious she was no longer the girl back in Toulon. Javert stood for a moment, his bag hanging by his side.

"_Mademoiselle, _what are you doing out here?" The openness of the city streets required the formality.

She sighed and shifted her weight where she sat, pulling her knees up to her face and resting her chin on them.

"Waiting for you, I suppose."

Javert knew something was wrong. He took a few steps forward, looking down at her. "You shouldn't be out here alone, in the dark," he murmured.

She gave a smile that Javert didn't like. "This reminds me of the time you found me in Toulon, sitting at the fountain."

Javert remembered that night.

"What are you doing out here?" he repeated, brusque I his questioning as he felt a protectiveness stir within him.

"Father hasn't come back yet…I was hoping he would be here, maybe he got arrested."

Javert swallowed.

"I've been sitting out here since dusk, no one has bothered me. The crickets chirped around her and she shook the hair from her face.

"I have to bring my bag back to my office," Javert said awkwardly, walking past her and pulling the key from his pocket. The tumblers in the door clicked as it was unlocked and Javert stepped inside, the smell of candle smoke hanging in the air. He heard shuffling footsteps behind him and knew that Aimée had followed him in. The booking cell was empty and Javert made his way to the back office, the only light around them the pale glow of the moon and stars outside.

Once inside his office, he went around the walls and lit each of the lamps, casting it in a warm glow. He turned to find Aimée curled up in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Javert found himself liking the way she looked as she sat amongst his things. The bag slouched to the floor as he set it down and made his way to sit across from her behind his desk. He leaned back and clasped his hands over his chest, watching her.

Aimée's head tilted back and Javert watched as her hair tumbled away from her head like a golden tapestry. "This office is so neat," she grumbled.

"Thank you."

"Wasn't necessarily a complement, Javert."

He was quietly amused.

"Where is your father?"

"God only knows…he said he was going to Toulon to speak to Beaudet. He's desperate to find some work now that Madele- um…Valjean's ruined the factory. How was Paris?"

The warrant grew heavier in his pocket. "I found them, he managed to get past the checkpoint. He evaded arrest."

"Again? Seems like this man is good at running."

Javert didn't respond.

Aimée lifted her head and watched him. "What?"

Javert shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out in a questioning gesture. "What?"

Aimée rolled her eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a small smile. He enjoyed this. Easygoing and quiet, privacy from the humorless world.

Aimée bit her lip, "I feel like…like we should talk about what happened before you left."

Javert shrugged. "Are you offended?"

"No."

The two sat in silence and Javert willed her to speak.

"Are you?"

Javert's throat tightened and when he spoke his voice was a quiet murmur. "No, _mademoiselle."_

She looked down at her lap. Her teeth were white and even when she smiled. "Good…"

His words were a little thicker when he spoke again. "I was not offended…but I don't think it was right. I'm sorry, _mademoiselle." _

Aimée looked up at him. "So you're not offended…but you regret it."

She looked hurt and the sight took his breath away. Javert cringed slightly.

_No, _he wanted to say. _I did not regret it. I'd do it a hundred times over if I could. _

"You're the one that actually kissed me, Javert," Aimée reminded him. Javert looked at her, his downturned eyes pleading. A long sigh escaped him.

"I have a choice I have to make, Aimée," Javert said, changing the subject and pulling out the warrant.

"To go back to Paris?" Aimée asked, crossing her arms.

"Yes." The word, small and short, hung in the air around them. Aimée looked at Javert, still and somber yet emotion swam in his pale green eyes. The paper on the desk mocked the both of them.

_You two will be separated again_.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." The words were truth. He didn't know.

Aimée hugged herself and looked at the nameplate on his desk. He leaned forward, wanting to touch her, to hold her hand, to pull her to him and keep her protected in his arms. Javert had to strain himself to hear her next words.

"I loved you once, Javert…."

Her words made him bow his head to her.

"Once?" he asked, his voice a low grumble.

"Back in Toulon. You were the one person who gave a damn about what happened to me once my mother died. The only one who cared about keeping me safe, who could actually protect me. But then you broke that promise."

The words sounded accusatory to him. He closed his eyes and felt his forehead crease. Guilt flooded through him. This young woman had found herself swept up in him and he let her fall back into the cruel world. He had burned her as well as her letters and here she was, trying to crawl from the ash as he struck another match. Aimée had said she loved him…was she aware of the strength in her words? Love or a childhood fancy?

"…and now, _mademoiselle?"_ Javert murmured.

Aimée watched him, his head bowed. She could see the peppering of gray in his hair. His deep voice made her stomach flutter and she felt his large, rough hands cradling her face.

"Would it make a difference?" she asked.

` Pale emeralds drowned in the roiling ocean waves and Javert couldn't stand to sit anymore, yet his feet felt cemented to the floor.

_You will face her. _

All he could do was murmur her name.

Aimée sighed and got up, walking around to the other side of the desk. Javert looked up at her, frozen where he sat as she moved some papers out of the way and sat up on the desk, the skirt of her simple blue dress draped over the side. She pulled her knees up and rested her arms on them. The side of her face rested on her arms and she looked down at Javert. He leaned back in his chair, regarding her.

"Do you regret kissing me?" she asked, quiet and beautiful.

Javert's head cocked to the side and he blinked before he finally muttered, "No."

She smiled at him and he would've smiled back if he hadn't been numb. She reached out to him and he managed to cradle her hand in his. Aimée's thumb ran along his knuckles and their fingers entwined.

"You could come to Paris."

"No I couldn't," Aimée said. "I have no money. I don't know Paris."

Javert nodded, knowing she was right. He was foolish to suggest it.

"You would want me to go to Paris?" Aimée asked, squeezing his hand. She let her legs fall over the edge of the desk. She was smiling and Javert felt heavy. He had no answer for her.

"You're going to take the job, aren't you?" Aimée asked.

Javert couldn't bring himself to answer. She played with his hand, tracing his fingers and pressing her palm against his. Javert stood, watching her move his hand to both of hers and tracing the lines that ran through his skin. The woman was lost in thought and Javert brought is free hand up and placed it at the back of her neck. He gently pulled her to him and she rested her forehead against his chest.

"I don't know," he murmured.

She pulled away and stood, wrapping her arms around him. The stubble from his beard scratched familiarly at the top of her head and she smiled. The warmth and protection of his arms soothed her as he returned her embrace and sighed. Aimée felt a light pressure on the top of her head as Javert gently kissed her hair. The feather light touch sent shivers up her spine and she could smell him, shoe polish and wood smoke. Javert moved his hands to her shoulder, the slight curve where her neck ended. He gently pushed her away a little and she felt him kiss her forehead.

"Did you mean what you said before, _mademoiselle?" _Javert asked, his breath a warm puff against her skin.

"When I said that I had loved you?"

"Yes." His voice made her eyes flutter closed and she could feel her heart pounding against her chest.

"I meant it."

Javert sighed. "And I hurt you."

"You did."

Javert's thumbs traced along her collarbones. "And I will hurt you again if I leave."

"You might."

"Aimée…"

She shook her head and kept her eyes closed. Aimée was trying to ignore the situation, push it to the back of her mind and hoped she would lose it there.

"If it makes a difference…I think I love you now," she whispered. She felt Javert's lips on her cheek, then her nose, then her other cheek. He pressed his forehead to hers.

"You deserve better than me, _mademoiselle."_

Aimée reached up and looped her arms around his neck. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "So far, you're the best I've seen." This time, she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Javert's lips. He was ready for it and met her with gentleness. They stayed for a few seconds, then broke apart and Aimée brought her arms down and nestled against him. He found himself kissing her hair again and letting his face bury itself in her gold tresses. Arms circled her and for a moment, the both of them allowed themselves to forget about the warrant that sat on his desk.


	24. Chapter 24

_**Hey there! Sorry for the wait, i've had to do some planning. This is a shorter chapter, kind of a filler, but full of fluff!**_

_**NOTE: We explore Javert's first name too. **_

XXIV: Whole Again

The air in the office grew muffled and silenced around Javert and Aimée. Aimée fiddled with the buttons of his coat, running her fingers over the smoothness of them and the roughness of the wool. Javert lifted his chin from her head and she pulled away and looked up at him. His brow was furrowed and Aimée huffed a sigh. Tentative fingers reached up and traced the lines of his worry. He watched her, unused to the tender touch of a woman and allowing himself to be enveloped in it.

"You're like an old bull," Aimée mused aloud. "Strong, handsome, a little stubborn."

Javert gave her a small smile. "Handsome?"

She shrugged. "Well…at least I think so."

He wanted to tell her she was beautiful then, that she was stunning, kind, and perfect, but he was too nervous to speak the words. Her fingertips graced over his brow, his temples, and the crinkles that spidered their way from his eyes. He reached up, captured her hand in his, and allowed himself to press a kiss to her hand. Aimée froze, her eyes on him and Javert forced himself to be drug back to the present, out of the small cocoon that had wrapped around them.

"Aimée, you said your father has been gone for some time now?"

She nodded. "He said she was going back to Toulon, something for the factory. Never said how long he'd be gone."

She grew weary then, almost sad. Her voice trailed away in a silent murmur and Javert cocked his head to the side as he studied her.

"You are worried about him." It left his mouth as a statement, not a question or observation.

The woman turned away from him and allowed herself to wipe her eyes. Aimée was indeed worried. Her father had disappeared before, but never out of town with so little explanation. She found herself frustrated with Gérard. Aimée would always worry and fret over him only to be rewarded with demeaning slurs or cold gazes. Why was she worrying so much now?

"When he was in the jail so long ago, he was at the docks, wasn't he?" Aimée spat, suddenly bitter. It tasted like bile in her throat when she began to realize just how much of a pig her father was, a cruel, uncaring pig that would not hesitate to leave her behind.

"I found him with a prostitute," Javert answered. He had wanted to lie to her, but decided she deserved better than deceptions. Javert stood very still and watched as a hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Protectiveness blossomed in his ribcage and he swallowed back the urge to lunge and wrap his arms around her again.

Wiping her eyes with the bottom of her palm, she turned her eyes back to him. "Will you walk me home?"

Javert nodded, going and dousing the lamps around them as Aimée stood by the door. Her body had shrunk again, her inner glow of happiness and warmth dulled away by worry and disgust. Aimée wanted to spit, wanted to rid herself of the image of her father snuffling a prostitute of the shipyards. When she had seen them before, they all looked sick, filthy, sweat and salt grime clinging to their skin like a dirty film. But Javert was here with her, and she couldn't help but give a small sigh as her heart flipped when he passed her, his arm brushing against hers as he led the way out of the office. He turned and locked the door behind him. Extending an arm, he bid Aimée to walk ahead of him to the front door of the jail. The bars of the cell sat in the center of the room, a dark ribcage empty of a heart and lungs. The night air was damp with early spring dew and cool. Aimée felt a strong hand at her back and she shuffled closer to Javert, the wool of his uniform brushing against her forearm every other step and making her feel safe.

The walk was silent, but both of them found that they wished it was longer. Aimée's house loomed in front of them and Javert allowed her to reach behind and thread her fingers through his. He was confident that no one would see them in the darkness, everyone was asleep with their families.

Except for the two of them, no family to speak of anywhere near.

_You have her. She has you, _Javert thought, following her up to her front door. She pulled out a key from a hidden pocket in her dress and the door unlocked with a faint click. Javert allowed himself to be led inside. One lamp was lit in the dining room where the butler had left it before he had gone home. Besides that, the home seemed to be empty.

Aimée looked at him and smiled, "Wait in the dining room, please."

Javert gave her a nod and made his way to sit down. She glanced at him and hurried up the stairs. She checked to see if Gérard had managed to come home. Her heart panged a little with concern when she saw the undisturbed linen pressed neatly along his mattress. Footsteps were quiet on the stairs as she descended back down. Aimée saw Javert still standing in the dining room, just barely on the edge of the lamps orb of light.

"He's not home," she said, pulling out a chair and offering for Javert to sit down before she retreated into the kitchen. Javert was about to politely decline and take his leave, but then he watched, transfixed as she craned her head back and tousled it with her hand. It bounced like weightless sunlight and Javert couldn't blink or look away as she gathered it over her shoulder, her pale skin almost glowing in the dull light. He felt his mouth fill with cotton.

Aimée found a spare loaf of bread and brought it out to the table. She set it on the polished wood and tore off a piece, ignoring the crumbs that sprinkled along the tabletop. "Well, are you going to sit down?"

Javert sat, under her spell, and watched her eat. She chewed once, then twice, and set down her piece. Tearing at the loaf again, she handed it to Javert. "Here, have some."

The crust crackled pleasantly when he bit into it and he brought up a hand to brush the crumbs from his beard. The two chewed in silence for a moment, not uncomfortable at all.

Aimée tilted her head back. "Suppose he never comes back, Javert."

"Don't say that."

"I shouldn't. But I'm angry with him now. He always does this, stays away for days at a time with no explanation. Or, if he decides to give me one, it's vague."

Her head lifted and she gave a rueful smile, "I suppose I could go to Paris with you then."

Javert barely managed to swallow his bit of bread. Aimée leaned forward, propping her elbows up on the smooth wood and holding up her chin with her hands "How old are you, Javert?" she asked out of the blue.

The crumbs on the table suddenly became very interesting as Javert turned his attention to them. He didn't answer.  
"If you don't answer, I'll have to guess." The playfulness in her tone did little to help him relax. Admitting his age would bring to crashing clarity the inappropriateness of this whole thing, this whole friendship or relationship or whatever it was between them. Javert had hoped with all his heart that he would be able to ignore it, even prayed to God that age would disappear.

"Come on…" Aimée pleaded. Her eyes widened in pleading and Javert made the mistake of glancing up into irresistible shades of the ocean.

"I am forty-three." The truth was pulled from him quietly.

She squinted. "I would've guessed fifty."

The crease between his eyebrows furrowed in indignation and he frowned. Aimée smiled at him, thinking he looked very much like a stubborn old bull.

"I'm just teasing you."

"That wasn't funny," he retorted, picking at his bread.

"It was kind of funny."

"No, it was not."

"You're right. Your old age isn't anything funny at all. In fact, it's frightening."

"Aimée."

Her eyes softened and she smiled wider at his discomfort. She enjoyed this, not teasing him, but being able to talk to him naturally. He was sitting at her own table, sharing bread with her and allowing himself to open up to her mischievous quips.

"I'm sorry," she said through her soft, smiling lips. Javert watched her, pulled off a piece of bread, and fiddled with it before popping it in his mouth.

Javert couldn't help but feel that the silence that surrounded him was slightly uncomfortable.

"What's your first name?" Aimée asked, cocking her head and easily slicing through the quiet.

"I'm not too fond of my first name."

"Me neither."

This surprised him. "Why? Your name is…" _Your name is what? Beautiful? _"…nice," he finished.

Aimée smiled. "What is it? Make you a deal, you tell me your first name and then you can ask a question."

Javert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "My first name is Mattheiu." His voice was very quiet.

"Mattheiu Javert," Aimée said, tasting the full name and rolling it around in her mouth. She decided she liked the way it sounded, so she said it again. "Mattheiu Javert."

Javert couldn't help but feel light when her voice made his name sound like gold.

"That wasn't so hard," Aimée said, giving him a smile. "Was it? Now…you get to ask me something."

The man looked across the table from her, his fingers tapping slightly on the crusty bread in his hand. He shrugged. "When I stopped contacting you, did you think about me?" he found himself asking. Immediately, Javert felt embarrassed by his question.

Aimée stood, "Wait here," and then she turned and disappeared up the stairs. Javert was left to sit alone with his bread. The crumbs watched him from the wood of the table and he couldn't help but feel almost weak. No one in his adult life had cared enough to ask for his first name. No one. He even doubted the Parisian courts knew it. To them he was just Inspector Javert, cold, serious, harsh in the face of the law and swelling with the pride of uniformed duty. Javert began to realize that he was starting to split into two sides of himself. The man his work knew and the man that would thaw in the beautiful face of Aimée Lamenté. A man that would touch her hair and kiss her lips, hold her hand and lose himself in her eyes.

She returned holding a small cedar chest. Standing behind him, she reached around and placed the little box on the table. Javert could feel how close she stood as he lifted the little metal clasp and opened the lid. Inside was a bundle. His stark handwriting stared back at him and he felt Aimée loop her arms around his neck and lean over, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"I kept them all," she said, her cheek brushing against his when she spoke. "Every last one."

Javert thumbed through the stack, not able to read what he had wrote. Probably promises of visits or words of missing her. His stomach twisted when he realized that her letters should be sitting in his own box of memories, but they had long since turned to ash. He felt his head loll to the side, pushing against her gently. The woman next to him sighed through her smile.

"I should go, Aimée."

He felt her arms tighten around him and she buried her face in his shoulder. "I don't want you to…."

Javert's eyes closed and a growing heat began to rise into his body. The feeling of being wanted, of being needed, was something he was beginning to covet. And hearing those words out of Aimée's mouth nearly sent shivers down his spine. However, with that came fear. He had never loved a woman before. Sure, Javert had felt strong infatuations, maybe even some fancies in his youth, but never what he felt when he looked at Aimée. The strength was new to him…and new things were frightening.

The chair grunted against the wood as Javert stood. Aimée's arms slipped to loop around his middle and her forehead pressed behind his shoulder. Javert's hands rose and enveloped hers and he heaved a sigh.

"_Mademoiselle_…life is cruel to the both of us."

"I know," her voice was muffled as she pressed her face farther into his body, hoping to hide away.

Javert idly traced his fingers along her small knuckles. Her voice was quiet from behind him. "My mother's name was Melanie. She had brown hair, freckles-"

"…and a gap in her teeth." Javert's voice was a quiet murmur and he couldn't help but think of her in that graveyard, clad in black and staring at the dirt that covered her mother and infant brother.

Javert felt Aimée's arms loosen and he turned to face her. He bent his head to meet her and felt the world slip away, replaced only by the warm caress of her lips. She smiled against him and kissed him back, feeling one of his hands go to the side of her face and the other thread its way through her hair. Aimée stepped even closer to him, looping her arms underneath his and pressing her hands flat against his back. The kiss grew, deep need flowing into a passion that momentarily sucked the breath from her lungs. She cautiously touched her tongue to his lip, flooding her senses with his taste, and felt her legs grow weak when Javert opened his mouth to welcome her to him.

Nothing in the world existed to Javert. Aimée was in his arms and he was drowning in her, her smell, the taste of her mouth, the silk of her hair on his palm. He let himself forget about age or Paris, forget about everything but her.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Javert looked down at her and felt the puff of her breath on his chin. Her eyes were wide, her ocean searching. He reached up and traced the side of her face, leaning forward and kissing her nose.

"I should go," he said again and Aimée shivered from the deep huskiness that had dropped into his voice. Her eyes grew sad, her arms still tight around him. He kissed her again, less passionate than before, and much shorter, but it still sent shivers down her spine. Aimée's arms fell away and he took her hand, pressing his lips to her as he stepped towards the door.

"Goodnight, Aimée," he said, his voice still deep.

Blinking, she grew mischievous. "Goodnight, Mattheiu," she said with a smile. Javert gave her a scowl, yet she knew it was far from serious, before he stepped into the entryway and slipped out the door.

Aimée stood for a moment before she grabbed the lamp from the table and her letter box before she made her way upstairs in the empty house. The stars watched her brush her hair, step out of her dress, and climb under the covers. Aimée's mouth was still warm and she still tasted Javert from the kiss. She fell asleep with a smile.

* * *

_**Ending note: I picked Matthieu because it can be roughly translated back to "Gift of God", which i think can sort of tie in with our dear Javert. Also, i never explained, but Aimée is translated back to "loved one," or something near to that. **_


	25. Chapter 25

_**Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait, chapters are getting longer as we go along, more content. Shout out to Lutzus for the wonderful long review, i greatly appreciated. Another shout out to all reviewers, i always love reading them! Hope you guys enjoy!**_

XXV: A Velvet Box

Javert stared at the painting for a long time. The lion and bull entrapped in a struggle, blood oozing from the bull's haunches and its eyes wild. He couldn't help but feel a sense of discomfort as he looked at the strokes of paint. Javert thought back to his mental image of Aimée, she had resembled a young lioness then, strong in her beauty.

"_You're like an old bull," _she had teased, stroking the heavy lines of his face.

A lioness and an old, worn bull.

Javert's eyes flickered to where the lion's claws were digging into the bull's body and the point of the deadly horn dangerously close to the tawny cat's side.

_This is how it could be,_ the lion roared and the bull grunted, _fighting and pain._

Javert shook his head, refusing to pander to his senseless worries. The light cotton of his undershirt hung loosely over his body, much more comfortable than the thick wool of his uniform. The collar hung away from him, opening up in a small v, the skin of his chest dusted with hair. He couldn't help but imagine the feel of her small hands sliding their way under the fabric, the soft skin of her palms pressed against him. Her kiss filled his mouth in memory, she had tasted like oven fresh bread and…_her._ Something Javert could not describe.

Walking to the window of his room and looking up to the clear, twinkling sky, Javert allowed himself to give in to her. He sighed heavily through his nose and felt his lips lilt upwards, crinkling his eyes in a smile. The stars smiled at him in return and he found himself humming silently, the deep voice a strong rumble in his chest. What would it feel like to dance with her? Sway her off her feet and feel her body move with his? Imagine the looks and the whispers that would follow them….

Javert rubbed the back of his neck from the strain of the long day and made his way back to the bed. It was late, morning only several hours away, and he was still expected to patrol. Javert turned on his side and wrapped his arms around a pillow. In his mind, he imagined Aimée curling up against him, her hair tickling his nose with lilacs and vanilla.

Sleep took him quickly.

* * *

Gérard returned that morning, a few days growth of stubble clinging dirtily to his jaw and his eyes yellowed, cradled by exhaustion. Aimée was eating breakfast, scones with jam that Thomas had picked up that morning as he came in to work. The aging butler had swept the crumbs and torn pieces of bread from the night before away from the table without question.

"You're back," Aimée said, sipping her tea and looking at her father. He was thinner than he had been days past.

"Yes," he answered, his hair dirty from lack of bathing. "Beaudet can't do much to help, I'm afraid." He seemed to crumple before her, shoulders slumping and head hanging low. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"Here," she said, standing and pulling out a chair so Gérard could collapse into it. His head fell into his hands. Aimée pushed her plate of scones to him. "Have something to eat. Tell me what happened." Originally, she had planned to confront him about the prostitute he had been with. Her mind changed when she saw how ragged and hopeless her father had become. He used to be so strong, frightening, but charismatic as well. However, in the tired lines of his face, Aimée could see the pain of a widower and the uncertainty of employment.

"Beaudet can't do anything to help, no one to manage the factory. I've asked around surrounding towns too, but I can't get any interest. Times are hard right now…no one wants to go out on a limb and invest."

"Why? It was such a popular company, successful."

"Unfortunately, superstition and notoriety have followed Madeleine, or whatever his name was. No one wants to buy rosaries from a hidden convict. All of our previous clients have withdrawn orders." His voice cracked and he seemed totally hopeless.

Aimée felt the fear of uncertainty swell in her throat, making it hard to breathe. She blinked and tried her best to push it aside. "You look like you haven't slept in days. Here, go up to bed, get some rest," she said gently, beckoning for Thomas to take Gérard upstairs. When he was gone, she leaned forward on the table, suddenly not hungry for scones or thirsty for tea.

"I need a walk," she said aloud, standing and going to the coatrack to grab her shawl. The air outside was cool, crisp in its baby spring. People bustled around her, baskets filled with bread and dirty children darted about in the streets, the mud calling them, enticing them to stomp about with small feet.

Winding her way to the market, she surveyed the butcher's stand. Fat ducks, chickens, and geese hung from the rafters, their pink, naked skin pimpled and bare from plucking. The café next door boasted about warm soups and roasted pork in their windows and Aimée continued to walk. Two blue uniforms stood at the corner, their wide-brimmed hats making them hard to miss. She felt her heart jump and she craned her neck, hoping one of them was Javert. As she neared, she was disappointed. Both were young men, one blonde and tall, the other brown-haired and squat.

"Might I help you, _mademoiselle?" _The blonde one asked, tipping his hat and his voice sounding like reeds.

"Oh, no, no thank you," Aimée answered quickly. The officers gave her a little bow and departed. Aimée watched them head to the café down the road, the pastries in its window beckoning them inside. She rolled her eyes, comparing them to Javert. He would never have taken time off of his patrol to go and snack, he was too serious. She heard the clop of hooves and peeked her head around the corner just in time to see Javert astride the large blue-roan horse. Aimée smiled a little, recognizing Ombre.

Stepping out of her hiding place, Aimée approached him. Javert was looking away from her, his head turned and the wide police hat sat on top of his head. She could see the peppering gray of his sideburns stretch from underneath. The horse snorted and paused when she approached and the Inspector turned, looking down to see what stood in his way. Aimée wasn't surprised when his face was as blank as stone, even when he noticed her.

_"Mademoiselle _Lamenté," Javert said, giving her a small bow from atop his horse. The openness of the streets demanded the courtesy from him. Ombre shifted his weight and Aimée watched Javert bob in the saddle.

"Hello, Inspector," she said, offering a curtsey. It felt strange to her and she bit her lip when she turned her eyes back to him. Javert looked so handsome to her, strong and tall, looking down at her from his mount. Aimée imagined what it would be like to sit behind him, wrap her arms around his body when she felt the swaying of the horse's step.

His brows furrowed. "Is everything alright, _mademoiselle?" _

"Um…yes," she managed, not wanting to think about what her father had told her earlier. Looking around, Aimée stood closer to the horse, permitting herself to put a hand to Ombre's strong shoulder. The horse's pelt twitched under her palm. "Actually…is there some place where I could speak to you? Father came back."

Javert did not hide the worry that shot through his eyes very well. He felt his jaw tighten and he nodded to her. "My patrol ends at seven tonight. Come to the stables next to the jail. I can speak to you then."

Aimée nodded and stepped away, completely understanding when Javert gave her a curt nod and clicked his tongue as he flicked the reigns. Ombre clopped off, his black tail flicking at a bugging fly and Aimée swore she saw Javert's head twitch to the side, almost as if to look over his shoulder. She smiled and pulled her shawl closer before she ducked her head and headed to her flower shop. The shop wasn't scheduled to be opened that day, but she wanted to lose herself in the floral scents of roses and lilies.

Bells chimed once she unlocked the door and stepped inside. She smiled, looking over the shabby shop. Heading to the back, she hung up her shawl and started idly arranging bouquets. A sprig of baby's breath here, snapdragons and lilacs there, daisies and daffodils throughout. When she was finished, spring sat in her hands. She smiled and placed it in a bucket of water, hoping someone might stumble in and buy it today, when it was still fresh.

A small sofa sat amongst her flowers, an old white one, the cushions muddled to a cream color. Aimée had moved it in here a while ago for when she couldn't stand to be in the same house as Gérard, no matter how big that house might be. The cushions welcomed her silently, letting her use them to rest without question. Aimée picked at the fabric of her dress, a dark navy dress with cream lace around the collar. She was beginning to hate dresses, the laces always tight around her ribs, making her lungs weak.

The bell demanded her to stand and go back to the front of the store. Aimée smiled as a young girl, only about sixteen or so, stepped inside, looking around the shop hesitantly.

"Can I help you?"

"Um, yes, It's my mother's birthday, I was wondering if you had anything?" the girl asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was a dark brown, nearly black as it sat underneath a bonnet. It complemented her light blue dress well.

Aimée nodded. "What a coincidence, I just made something only minutes ago." The bouquet was beautiful in her hands when she approached the counter again. She felt her chest swell with pride when she saw the young woman's smile light up her face. The bouquet was passed over the counter.

"Oh, this is perfect! So perfect! How much?"

"A franc and fifty sou," Aimée offered, willing to lowball a price because she saw how much the young woman enjoyed the bouquet.

Money was exchanged and Aimée watched the baby blue skirt of her dress slip through the door. Propping her elbow up on the counter, a sigh escaped her. She thought of her own mother, so long ago gone. She could picture her face as clear as ever, her voice like honey and sunlight. A sad little pang jabbed inside her, but she shook her head. If Aimée would think of her mother, she would only think of the goodness in her. The happiness that she had.

Aimée looked behind her as she flicked a crumb off her countertop. The flowers sat quietly in the back room, waiting to be bought or arranged. Maybe one day, someone would bring her flowers. Someone with a serious face that would soften when they looked at her and a bearded jaw that would twitch with an almost smile.

Aimée stayed in the shop for most of the day, sweeping, dusting, arranging…trying to do an array of tasks to waste time and to keep her mind away from her father's words. By the time six o'clock rolled around, Aimée was starting to grow anxious. She wanted to see Javert…talk to someone who might know what to do, hold on to something solid and secure. Dusk had started to sneak its way through the streets of Montreuil and at six fifteen, Aimée couldn't handle it any more. She drew the curtains over the windows of her store and closed up shop.

With her shawl back around her shoulders, she set off into the night. Not wanting to show up too early at the stables, she decided to take a long detour. Ducking down an alley, Aimée set off, her footsteps clicking on the cobblestones. The light was still pretty strong and the people greeted her with a nod or a grunt when she passed. Her hands were clasped together beneath her shawl and she fiddled her thumbs. As time went on and her walk continued, the people thinned. The streets grew dirtier.

Growing slightly uncomfortable, Aimée looped her way back through some more side streets and made her way back to the main part of town. Thick, savory odors of stew and roasted chicken clouded over the street and she couldn't help herself but deeply inhale as seven o'clock finally wound its way to her. She hurried to the jail. Tucked next to it was a small stable, the cobblestones covered in straw.

The thick barnyard odor of horses filled her nose and she found that she didn't mind it. There were about four horses inside, the others still on patrol. From the back corner, she recognized a familiar dark mane. Ombre nickered at her when she approached. She held her hand out to him and the horse flapped his big velvet lips against her palm expectantly. The animal gave a disappointed snort and bobbed his head when he realized she had no treats for him.

"He remembers you," a deep baritone murmured.

Aimée turned and saw Javert nearing her, his hat gone and the stiff collar of his uniform unbuttoned. Her eyes couldn't help but stare at the exposed skin of his neck. Javert neared her, his hands clasped in front of him. He watched her as she smiled and turned back to the horse, running her hand along his long muzzle. The short hair brushed against her fingers.

Javert felt happy when he looked at Aimée petting his horse. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands curling lazily around her face. He watched her neck lead to the dark navy of her dress.

"You look beautiful, _mademoiselle,"_ Javert murmured, his voice like a rumble in the stable. They were alone, he had told the stable boy to go home when he rode in and took away Ombre's saddle and tack.

She turned to him, surprise written on her face. Then, as his words sunk in, Aimée found herself blushing and looking at her feet. "No, I don't, this is just normal."

"It is normal," Javert admitted.

Aimée realized that he had confessed to her, confessed that he believed she was beautiful to him whenever he looked at her, even in her normalcy. "Thank you, Javert."

He huffed and gave her a small smile. Javert stood next to her, his shoulder touching the beam of the stable as he permitted himself to lean slightly. Aimée bit her lip, returning to give Ombre attention.

"What is it?" he asked, cocking his head to look at her. Aimée shrugged. He was surprised when she walked to the door of Ombre's stall, pick up the horse brush, and step inside, ignoring the straw that greedily snatched at the hem of her dress. She ran the brush down Ombre's coat and watched it twitch at first.

Javert followed her, starting to grow worried. "Aimée, is everything alright?"

Aimée frowned. "Father says that we have no job. The factory is closed permanently. All of our clients we supply have dropped us."

Javert stood close behind her and brought a hand to her shoulder. Aimée bowed her head and leaned back against him, his solid chest warm and solid against her. He lowered his head and kissed the back of her hair. His hand slid down and rested on her upper arm, his thumb tracing along her skin.

"I'm sorry, Aimée."

"They all say that they don't want to do business with a company affiliated with Jean Valjean," Aimée said, her voice bitter.

Anger made his hand tighten slightly against her arm. She reached up and ran her fingers across his. They entwined and she felt Javert sigh, his chest rising and falling against her back. The puff of his breath was warm against the back of Aimée's neck.

"I just don't know what we're going to do," she admitted.

"Gérard has no savings?" Javert asked, taking the brush from her and forcing himself to step away, placing it up on the shelf of the stall.

"Maybe he has some, but I wouldn't count on it. He wouldn't be so shaken up about this whole thing if he had money somewhere."

Javert crossed his arms and looked at his feet. "I wish I had an answer for you."

"Me too," Aimée's voice was hushed. Javert could see the worry on her face, in her eyes, and in the frown of her mouth. The worry became overwhelming for her and she allowed herself to be swept up in Javert's arms. She buried her face in his chest, inhaling shoe-polish and wood smoke and the musk of a day-long patrol. His hands spread along her back and he rocked her gently, hushing the threat of tears.

"Come to Paris with me, _mademoiselle,_" Javert murmured.

She was quiet against him, so he spoke again.

"There is nothing for you here…nothing at all. This place, Montreuil, it's just like Toulon. Nothing here but hardships for you…"

"And you think Paris will be easier?" Aimée asked, drawing away from him and meeting his eyes. "That's naïve, Javert."

His arms fell limply against his side. Javert wanted to be angry with her words, but he couldn't…not when the truth rung so loudly. Hanging his head, he stepped closer to her and watched when she brought her hands up to fiddle with his buttons. Gently, he pressed his lips to her temple in a long, unmoving kiss. When he broke away, Javert's mouth was close to her ear and she could feel the warmth of his breath tingling her skin.

"It may not be easier…but I would be there. I'd know if you were safe or not."

"So you're saying you'd check in on me?"

"If you wanted."

The silence lapsed and they stood, very close, the sides of their faces touching.

"Javert…"

"Yes, _mademoiselle?" _

"What are we?"

He drew away from her, backed about a foot, and Aimée regretted speaking, immediately missing his warmth and nearness. This had been the question Javert had feared, hoped he could ignore, not categorize it as anything but _happiness._

"You are a woman, a beautiful, intelligent woman that deserves so much more than what God has given her. And I'm a man. Stern and cold and lonely." The words, no matter how painful to admit, left him in a quiet rush. "Together…Aimée…I don't know. That is the truth. I do not."

Aimée didn't know why she felt disappointed, but she did. What had she expected? She was young…foolish. They had kissed a few times…did that mean they were courting? Foolish…foolish young little woman. Aimée felt her throat swell and her eyes pricked. Great…now she was going to cry.

"Aimée…I may not know _what _we are," Javert said, his voice strong as he bent low and grabbed her shoulders so they could look eye to eye. "But I know you make me happy. You keep the loneliness away."

Before watery tears could fall from her eyes, Javert kissed her. Passion flared between them and she gave a muffled noise of surprise. Her mouth opened to him and when she met Javert's tongue with her own, Javert straightened, wrapping his strong arms around her and forcing her to stand on her tiptoes to meet him. He moved forward, his lips moving solidly against hers and Aimée felt the wood of the barn wall collide against her back. Javert's palms pressed against the wall, pinning her in place, but she didn't mind as she looped her arms up around his neck and trailed her fingers through his short, peppered hair. He stood closer to her, his body pressing against hers and she was actually thankful. If he wasn't there holding her in place, Aimée's knees would've surely collapsed. He tasted fabulous to her, strong and warm and _him. _

Javert was absorbed in Aimée. Her tongue met his with more fervent intensity than he would've imagined, and he craved it. She tasted like vanilla and beauty, sunshine and love. Javert couldn't get enough, couldn't get closer to her. His body was flush against hers and he felt her soft chest pressing against his, her stomach arching to him as she tried to reach up to meet his lips. Unable to stop himself, Javert placed a large hand possessively to her side, his palm following the curve of her waist. Breaking away from her lips, Javert pressed a kiss to her neck, right under her jaw. He couldn't help but smile against the softness of her skin when he felt her give a small shudder against him.

His beard scratched her skin, but it was far, far from unpleasant. Aimée's eyes had actually opened when he quickly pulled away from her lips without warning. She was momentarily stunned, confused, before she felt the heat of his mouth move against her neck. Aimée's arms slid away from his neck and looped around him, embracing him as he led a trail of shuddering kisses from her jaw down to the curve of her neck, the small arch of sensitive skin that melted with her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered closed and she heard a low rumble escape Javert's throat. The hair on his head brushed against her cheek and she smiled in her state of bliss.

He was drowning in vanilla and lilac, wrapped up in a world he never wanted to escape. The world of her soft skin, her ocean eyes, the warmth that radiated off her like the sun. He couldn't even smell the musky odors of the horses….

_The stables. We're in the stables. Anyone could see us._

Javert forced himself to pull away, his body still pressed close to her. He could feel Aimée's heart thunder against his chest and he was sure she could feel the puffing of his lungs as he tried to regain his breath. Aimée's stared at him, wide eyed and bewildered, her mouth still slightly open in a tempting sigh. It took all of the harsh man's self-control not to throw caution to the wind and carry on, but he couldn't. It wouldn't be fair to her. Not fair to be seen with a man like him, so much older and ultimately beneath her status in the town of Montreuil

Javert heard Aimée sniff and he looked at her, one arm still pressed against the wall. She leaned her head over and nestled the side of her face into the wool of his sleeve. "You know I can't go to Paris with you."

"I know," Javert's voice was husky and cracked. He tried to swallow back the passion that still left his mouth burning. He cupped her cheek, running his thumb over her cheekbone. His eyes darted around her face, drinking in every detail. Lashes were thick and dark against her skin when she blinked. Javert heaved a sigh as he wrapped a free strand of her hair around his fingers, fiddling with the smooth gold.

Aimée tried to give him a smile. "So you've already decided to take the job then." She watched the muscles in his jaw flex and tried to meet his eyes, but they were busy watching the hair that he twirled in his fingers. She took his lack of an answer for an answer.

"I don't want to think of that right now," she said, bringing her hands up to run over his shoulders. They were still so close together. "Right now…this, I want to stay like this."

Breathing heavily through his nose, Javert gave her a shy smile as he felt the smoothness of her hair. Wrapping it around his finger, her brought it up and gently ran it over his cheek. "I do to, _mademoiselle." _He allowed her to give him a gentle kiss, her hair still entwined in his fingers, before she broke off and closed the small distance between them, tucking her forehead underneath his chin. She smiled when she felt the scratchiness of his beard and his chest heave under her in a contented sigh.

"I should probably go back home soon," Aimée said, her voice muffled. Javert felt her nestle up closer to him, her skin warm on his neck. He gave her a chuckle and wrapped his arms around her, swaying back slightly. It was a warm, rumbling sound that made Aimée's heart flip. "You should laugh more. I like that."

"Mmm," he murmured, giving her a squeeze before her let her go. "Let me escort you home."

Aimée smiled at him and threaded her arm through his, her hand clutching gently around his bicep. He led her out of the stable's stall and closed the gate. Ombre snorted when they left, oblivious to the smile that graced his owner's lips.

Luckily, no one had wandered into the stable while they were together. The evening had darkened outside and had grown chilly. Aimée found herself walking closely to Javert, craving the warmth of his jacket. The streets had grown bare, but the windows of cafés and restaurants were glowing with warmth and camaraderie. Aimée found herself wishing that Javert could escort her inside, buy her a nice dinner.

_Maybe someday…_ she thought to herself, giving a candid smile.

"Here we are, _mademoiselle,_" Javert said quietly when they reached her house. The lights were lit and she saw Thomas through the window setting the dining room for supper. The first night Gérard would be joining the meal in a long time.

"Thank you, Javert," she said, taking her hand away from his arm and standing quietly. "I hope you have a good night." She figured it would be best if she was courteous in public.

"You as well," Javert said, giving her a curt little bow.

Aimée smiled at him and cautiously brushed her hand against his when she turned to retreat back inside. Javert watched her go and her back pained him. He wanted to follow her, wrap her in his arms again, kiss her without any fear of someone seeing them. Closing his eyes in a long blink, Mattheiu Javert bowed his head to her door and turned on his heel to leave.

His mind was churning as he walked the streets. He couldn't stop thinking of Aimée. Something warm and buzzing filled him every time he pictured her face. The roiling ocean of her eyes haunted him every moment, from the time he woke up to the time he closed his eyes to sleep.

With a harsh clarity, Javert realized he loved her. He loved Aimée Lamenté.

_I love her…and I can't leave her here, _he thought. _I want her to come with me to Paris._

But she could never do that. Never leave this city or her father for a man, a man like Javert. He knew he was a man of the law, a harsh man of age and justice. But she changed that. She made him happy, made him change.

_She makes your life worth living…._

Javert heard the laughter inside the restaurants, the clinking of dinnerware and the happiness that followed wine. There was a jeweler next to a large, brick-faced café near the jailhouse. Seeing that the lamps were still lit, Javert stared at the door. Running a hand over his face and wondering why he was doing something so foolish, Javert ventured inside.

The jeweler was an older man, maybe a few years older than him, with a round face and a beard. He smiled at Javert, his big arms crossed in front of him. He looked like he should be a butcher, or a smith…not a man who crafted fine jewelry.

"Good evening, Inspector!" the man exclaimed, "I'm Frauch. Welcome to my store. Looking for something?"

Javert scowled a little when he heard his authority. Everyone recognized him here.

"I'm…looking for a ring. Engagement," Javert answered, stiff an uncomfortable.

"Right this way, _Monsieur _Inspector," Frauch said, beckoning Javert with an arm to the corner of a glass case. He reached inside and picked up a tray. Placing it on the countertop, Frauch grabbed an oil lamp and brought it closer so Javert could see the detail in the rings. "Silver or gold?"

Javert thought for a moment, thought of her stormy eyes and dark lashes. "Silver."

"Good choice, must be a beautiful woman!" Frauch let off a bout of good-natured laughter. Javert was still uncomfortable in the shop, but he secretly decided he liked the jeweler. "Any other stones?"

Javert's mouth was a hard line and his brow furrowed as he thought. "Sapphires?"

"A ring of the sea!" The big man sorted through the tray and picked out several rings, setting them before Javert. "Any of these suit your eye?"

Javert looked over them, his brow furrowed as he was studied the rings closely. The last one was a delicate silver band, the faint etching of ivy leaves pale on the silver. A dark sapphire shined as it was flanked by two small, clear diamonds. The faint stirring in his heart when he looked at it made him nod to Frauch.

"That one. The one on the end." Javert said, pointing to it. Frauch smiled.

"Excellent choice…a sapphire as dark as the ocean waves," he said, picking up the small rings with surprising gentleness for such a large man. He placed it in a small velvet box and went back to the front.

"How much?" Javert asked.

"For the dear Inspector? One hundred and fifty francs."

The price was expected, about two months of Javert's salary, but completely worth it. Javert nodded and pulled out a bundle of bills. Because he traveled so much, he had grown used to carrying large amounts of money with him. No one would dare try to rob him, and he never knew how far or how long he would be away. Handing Frauch the money, Javert held out his hand for the small velvet box.

"I wish you luck, Inspector," Frauch laughed, pocketing the bills. He gave Javert a nod as he turned to leave the store. "God bless."

_God hasn't been the kindest_, Javert thought. _Please let him give me this. This happiness._ The ring box felt heavy in his pocket. But it wasn't a bad heaviness. It was a hopeful, exciting weight. The heaviness of a possibility for a whole new life. A woman he loved and a life he had craved since he was a boy. All of it right there in that small velvet box in his pocket.


	26. Chapter 26

**_Mature language warning! _**

XXVI: Fire

Dinner was interrupted by Gérard stumbling down the stairs. His shirt was un-tucked, hair a mess, and yellowed eyes wild.

"What's wrong?" Aimée asked, her brow furrowing as she watched her father collapse in a chair.

"Hmm? What?" Gérard asked, looking at his daughter as if he was deaf. "Oh, nothing. Nothing."

Thomas brought out dinner, roasted beef with potatoes, carrots, and gravy. Gérard ate quickly, shoveling in the food as if he had been starved for days. Aimée, a little less intense, ate silently. Mopping up the gravy on his plate with a thick slice of bread, Gérard looked up, his face shiny from the drippings of his food.

"Aimée, when you're done, I'd like for you to go up to your room and pack," he said, still chewing his food and finally remembering to wipe his face with the napkin.

Aimée's fork clattered when it slipped from her hand and fell to the table. "What?"

Gérard nodded. "I don't know when we'll have to leave, but I at least want some of our belongings ready." His fingers were drumming against the wood of the table, a quick, quiet cadence.

This calmed her a little. It didn't necessarily mean they were leaving tonight or tomorrow. "Alright," she said. Her appetite had died away and she picked at her food a few moments before asking to be excused. Gérard permitted her with a grunt and a wave of his hand and she slid calmly from the table, stepping past her father and towards the stairs.

"Only pack what you need, Aimée," he called back to her.

His words unnerved her. She felt the cold pinpricks of nagging start to creep into the back of her head. Something wasn't right, her father's dishevelment, his wide, twitching eyes…something wasn't right at all.

She stuffed three dresses into a trunk, along with some underclothes, stockings, and a pair of shoes. Hurrying to her shelf, she grabbed a few books, kohl and lipstick, perfumes and powder. Hair pins, shawls, her broach, some jewelry. Finding her cedar chest full of letters, Aimée tried to put it into the trunk as well, but found it wouldn't fit. That's ok, she had two arms. Putting her belongings into the corner, she went back downstairs, ready to question her father again.

"Papa, what's going-"

"I'm going to the factory," he said, interrupting her. "Have to grab a few things.

"I'll come with you."

"No!" her father barked, pointing at her. "Stay here."

Aimée actually recoiled, frightened of her father's harsh bark. He watched her, the eyes of a savage in his face, wide and wild. He smoothed back his hair and quickly ducked out the door.  
_This isn't right. This isn't right. Think, Aimée, think. Paper…I need paper. And a pen. _Her mind was reeling, not knowing what was happening but gathering that it wasn't about to be good. Hitching up the skirt of her dress, Aimée ran up the stairs.

"Thomas! Thomas?"

The butler was nowhere to be found. He wasn't supposed to leave for another two hours. He had just served them dinner, where was he? Aimée's heart started to thump against her chest and she burst her way into her father's study. Papers were everywhere, on the floor, on the desk, everywhere. As she neared the desk, the sharp biting scent of oil stung her nose and made her eyes water. Looking closer, Aimée saw that the surfaces of the papers were glistening and shining, as were the walls and the wood of the desk. Lamp oil had soaked everything.

"My god…"

Then she saw it, an orange glow in the coming night. A pinprick of light in the study window. Fire. The factory was burning. She could see the greedy licking flames start to rise from the office window on the second floor. Shock and horror filled her and Aimée brought a hand up to her face. On the street below, she could see the shadow of her father leave the factory come to the house.

Aimée knew what he was going to do, and she had no time to run. No time to stop it.

Finding the closest pen she could, Aimée sprinted down the stairs. She opened up the cedar chest and grabbed the first envelope she saw. Flipping it over, she began to frantically write, her heart aching with every stroke of the pen.

_**Javert,**_

_**There's going to be a fire. Gérard is going to start a fire. I'm fine. I'll find you. I need to find you. I love you. **_

_** Aimée **_

Just as she stuffed the envelope back in the cedar box, the door slammed open. Her father found her at the stairs.

"What are you doing! What have you done?" Aimée screamed, stepping towards him and throwing up her hands.

"We have to leave."

"We don't have to burn down the factory!"

"Don't you dare tell me what I have to do!" Gérard screamed, standing over her like the massive man he was, his face red and smelling of kerosene. "I know what I'm doing. That rat Madeleine robbed us blind, so now I'm repaying the debt!"

"Fire? Why burn it! You'll be arrested! Javert will find out what you-"

"Javert? That piss guard from Toulon! What's he going to do? He's not here to come and sweep you off your feet, Aimée. He's not here to carry you to safety. We're leaving!"

He hadn't known Javert was here, not even when he arrested him. She clawed at her father when he spat out Javert's name, tearing at his shirt and trying to strike his face. Gérard took her shoulder and flung her away. She slammed into the bannister and collapsed to the floor. He stormed past her and went to the office.

_The chest…the letter. _

She heard the clop of horse hooves and the creak of carriage wheels out in front of her door. Gérard had called for a carriage. A man she didn't recognize leapt off the coach and hurried inside. He was filthy, tall, lean, and dark-skinned. His eyebrows were dark as well, looking like two caterpillars on his face, not matching the gray-chestnut of the grungy wig he wore on his head. He gave her a look and bent over to pick up her trunk.

" Hello, _belle_, time to go!" he laughed and even though she was far away from him, she could smell alcohol on his breath.

"Who are you!?" she screamed, clutching the cedar box to her chest.

"_Monsieur _Thénardier," he said, "Mate of your father's."

Aimée hurried past him into the dark evening and she froze by the carriage. Across the street, the top level of the factory was ablaze. She smelled smoke behind her and turned in horror as Gérard dashed down the stairs, smoke curling and following at his heels.

"Go, go go go!" he yelled, motioning to Thénardier to hurry out the door.

Desperately looking around, Aimée searched for a place to put the box.

_He has to find it. He has to find it. _

There! Next to the large stone that lined her walkway. She nestled it there, hoping, _praying_, that Javert would see it in time. See it and look for her. He'd find her. He would.

The hand that grabbed her left bruises. "Get in the damn carriage! We have to get out of here!" Gérard bellowed. He tossed her inside, ignoring her scream and whimper, and the carriage lurched drastically as Thénardier slapped the reins on the horses' backs.

By the time they were out of sight, the Lamenté's home was engulfed in the greedy hunger of flames.

* * *

Javert heard the fire before he saw it. His window had been open and he was lying on his bed in his undershirt and slacks, the velvet box open on his chest and the ring glinting at him in the semidarkness. He heard the soft crackling of burning wood and smelled the tang of wood smoke in the air. Brow furrowed, Javert got up and neared the window. The orange and yellow glow of swollen, hungry flames momentarily stunned him. It looked as if the sun had landed in the middle of Montreuil. He squinted out the window, trying to pinpoint the location of the building.

His stomach dropped to his feet when he realized where it was. The factory.

Pocketing the ring, Javert wasted no time bolting out the door, ignoring the military jacket that hung in his wardrobe. The steps disappeared under him with thumping footsteps and the lower floor of the inn was deserted. On the street, the flames could be heard above him in a crackling and popping din. People hurried all around him, drawn to the fire like moths to candlelight.

Javert shoved and shouldered his way to the front. He could feel the roar of heat against his face and beads of sweat started to bud on his brow. The yellowness reflected from his pale green eyes and they widened as men desperately called for buckets of water. It was no use, there was no way that the fire could be tamed, it had grown into a swollen, ravaging animal.

Javert could feel the sweat on his neck and forehead when a woman shrieked behind him. He whirled and he blanched when he saw the flames just down the road. Two fires. A window shattered up above, yellow fire licking out, reaching with burning hands.

"No…" he breathed when he realized the site of the other fire. "NO!"

His bellow was unheard over the screams of women, shouts of men, and the crackling of fire. Pushing and shoving his way to the other burning house, shouldering past men and women alike, ignoring the less fortunate maidens who had fainted from the heat and shock.

"Aimée!" he roared, sprinting to the house. "Aimée! AIMÉE!"

The house was fully engulfed. The door was left open and the yellow flames swelled up the stairs and into the kitchen. He ran as fast as he could to the doorway, the library. The books, all her books, tore apart and eaten by flame. "Aimée!" he screamed. There was no sign of her. The smoke stung his eyes. He looked around frantically, keeping an arm up to his face, trying to breathe through the fabric of his shirt. Javert needed to find her.

_Where is she. Where is she. WHERE IS SHE?_

"Inspector, get out of there!" officers had arrived. They were yelling to him, but he could barely hear them over the roar of flames. His face was dripping sweat from the heat and he felt a bite at his left hand. A strong force took him by the shoulders and heaved him back out the door. Tripping backwards on the threshold, Javert stumbled out in to the front walk. Two officers tried to help him up.

"Get off of me!" he raged, turning and flinging the lesser officers off him. "Aimée!" he screamed again. Javert tried to return to the house, but he took a step forward and the fire plumed out the door. He watched, wild eyed as the house groaned. Men of the city were trying to pour buckets over the flames, but they, just like the factory, were too late. His eyes were wide and he felt his knees buckle. The harsh cobblestones met with a jolt of pain and he felt his eyes narrow.

"Gérard, where's Gérard Lamenté? Where is he? WHERE IS THAT BASTARD?"

A tall blonde officer by the name of Breault looked at his commanding officer. "Who, sir?"

"Gérard Lamenté! Where is he?"

"I don't know, sir."

Javert felt rage as strong as the flames rise in his chest. He stood and stormed to the guard, closing his fists around the young man's jacket. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had no words, he could only snarl. Javert hardly noticed that the flesh of his left hand was burned, bit at by the flames inside.

"Sir, we found something!" another officer called. Javert quickly released Breault and stormed over to the other man. He was holding a small cedar box. Javert's heart quickened and he took it, his anxiety and adrenaline masking the pain in his hand. Throwing open the lid, he found a note scratched on the back of one of his letters. The ink was smudged, blotted and messy, barely legible, but he read the words in the glow of Aimée's burning house.

He felt the fury turn to tears in his eyes and he blinked them away, slamming the lid down and tucking it under his arm. "I want Gérard Lamenté found. I WANT HIM FOUND!" he roared to his men, drowning out the humming crackle of flames and the grunts of water-carriers. "Find him. If you have to go to neighboring cities, do it. If you have to hunt him down and fucking kill the bastard, I want it done!"

Even without the crispness of his jacket, Javert reeked with authority. His officers feared

him, but it was the kind of fear that instilled the drive to work.

"Do you all understand me!?"

"Yes, sir!" they bellowed back as one. A many-voiced army of justice. The officers dispersed, some headed to the docks, the others to the stables. Javert turned back behind him and looked at the burning house again. His hand began to throb, but he ignored it, choosing instead to let the pain feed in to his rage.

"I'll find you," he murmured through his teeth, his blistering hand clenching, sending a stabbing pain up his arm.

Javert's glare could turn a man to stone as he shoved his way past the spectators and headed back to the inn. The stairs creaked under the force of his footsteps. Inside his room, he tore open his wardrobe and grabbed the jacket. Quickly, he did the buttons and the collar around his neck. Reaching back into the wardrobe, he grabbed the wood and metal pistol, a large, heavy thing with a rounded handle and long barrel. Looping it in his belt, he also attached his baton and his saber around his hip. His hand began to burn, low and heated, growing into a searing pain.

Grunting, he poured cool water from the pitcher into the wash basin and thrust his hand underneath the surface, immersing it in liquid chill. He exhaled loudly through his nose at the immediate relief. Stepping to his bed, he removed the linen and tore out a long strip. Javert quickly wrapped it around his hand, ignoring the need for a real doctor or Sister to look at it.

Only when he sat for a moment on his bed to finish wrapping did he feel the small lump in his pocket. Javert froze, his body as still as stone. Then, slowly, carefully, he withdrew the small, velvet box. He opened it, and flames stared back at him through the dark sapphire of his proposal. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his eyes closed, and his hand burned. He leaned forward, clutching the ring in his uninjured hand and pressing his fists to his temples.

The scream that left him was ragged. Angry…furious…pained…dejected. He didn't care if other rooms in the inn could hear him. Didn't care if people knew. He got up, went to the wash table, and flung it to the ground, the porcelain shattering and water spilling along the floorboards.

"It's not fair!" he shouted, hoping that the deafness of God could be shattered by his voice. Tears started to well up in Javert's eyes and he blinked them away because they stung. They were stronger than that…more persistent. They gathered together, beat back his control, spilled down his cheeks and dripped off his jaw. He brought his fist to his face and tried to bite back his pain and anger. He opened the ring again and looked at it, running his finger over the beautiful stones and smooth silver band.

_I'm going to find him. So help me God, if that bastard hurt Aimée I'll have him hanged! Tied to a post and lashed before the noose! _Javert's head was a spinning inferno of fire, sadness, and anger. So much, it made his temples throb along with his injury.

_Enough of this, _Javert ordered himself, wiping his eyes and walking through the water, his boot crunching over some pieces of shattered porcelain. He took out his hat, put it on his head with a face of stone, and left the room.

Outside was pandemonium. Women were dumping buckets of water down the walls of their homes in case the fire spread. Men were running the streets trying to bring water to the two fires. Wheelbarrows of mud and sand were being carted, shovels resting on top so people could try and smother the flames.

They were nothing to him, noise and blurs as he made his way to the stables. The other horses were spooked by the smell of smoke and the chaos of Montreuil, but Ombre was calm. Stern and ready in the back corner. Heaving the saddle and pad over the dark horse's broad back, Javert thought about Aimée. Thought about her watching her house burn. Her life burn. Ombre snorted and stomped his foot angrily when Javert tugged a strap too tightly. The bit slid easily into the horse's mouth and Javert led the horse out of the stables. A group of four men waited for him. Tall, sandy-haired Breault, his stout friend, and two other officers Javert couldn't bother to remember.

Throwing himself into the saddle, he barked out orders. "We ride south, to the next city, then make our way from there." He kicked Ombre into a full gallop, letting out a curt shout as he did so. Hooves pounded the cobblestones and the crackling of flames were quickly drowned out.

* * *

"We're staying here," Gérard said when the carriage rolled to a stop.

"I'm not getting out,' Aimée said, her face streaked with tears. She had cried for most of the ride. How could things have been so perfect only a few hours before hand, in the stable? Now, her life was chaos, burnt up by her father's desperate plan to rob the factory. He had in his briefcase two thousand francs that had been left behind in the office. Not enough for the burning of two buildings and dragging her life away with him.

"You will damn well get out!" Gérard seethed, leaning forward and bringing up a hand. Aimée found herself cowering back onto the seat and he gave her a disgusting smile.

He pushed open the carriage door and they found themselves standing in front of a disgusting inn. People inside were shouting bawdily at each other, their flagons sloshing over and the floor smelling like soot and piss and beer.

"Welcome to my establishment!" Thénardier said happily, oblivious that he had just aided Aimée's father with arson. "Come in, have a drink, forget this ever happened!"

Aimée disliked the man who had arrived out of nowhere, appearing to be one of Gérard's closest companions. But, nevertheless, with heavy and saddened steps, she followed the two men into the clashing chaos of the inn. A woman with wild hair and a mouth lined in red-pocked sores that she had tried, unsuccessfully, to cover with red lipstick, waltzed over, her hair wild with feathers and adornments that made her look like a broom.

"Honey, welcome back, and this must be your new friends! So glad we could make a deal work out," she said to Gérard, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder and winking. Aimée felt her nose wrinkle.

She felt a tugging on her skirt. "Hello!" a little voice chimed.

Aimée looked down to see a small girl, her hair curled and brown like chocolate shavings underneath a little blue bonnet. She smiled with wide brown eyes.

Even in her strife, Aimée couldn't help but smile at her. "Hello."

"What's your name?"

"Aimée."

"Mine's Éponine," the little girl said. "Want to see my doll?"

Aimée sniffed as Gérard left her side, interested in a bottle that was being passed around. Little Éponine took Aimée by the hand and brought her to some back rooms. Hers was a little room, about the size of Aimée's back in Toulon. A little bed with a little pillow. Éponine hurried over to a chest in the corner and opened the lid. "I have lots of dolls," she said, her small voice muffled as she bent over inside the chest.

Éponine was confused when she came back to her new friend. Aimée was sitting on the floor her back pressed against the wall and her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with heavy tears.

"Miss, what's wrong?" the little girl asked, oblivious in her youth.

"Hmm? Oh," Aimée said, sniffing and wiping her eyes, "Nothing little one."

Éponine was a smart little girl. "If you want to cry, you can cry. I won't mind. Would you braid my hair?"

Aimée gave the little girl a watery smile and Éponine gave a squeal of happiness and settled herself in front of Aimée's knees. Aimée removed the little blue bonnet and set to work, braiding Éponine's smooth brown hair.

"This way, you can cry without me seeing you," the little girl said, not turning back.

"Yes…"

The tears fell from Aimée's face like a river in silence, unseen by Éponine and the world around her.


	27. Chapter 27

_**One more for you all! Once again, thanks for reading! Everyone's awesome! We're reaching the end of this time period, so brace yourself for another jump. enjoy!**_

XXVII: Princesses and Promises

The Thénardiers were disgusting people. The inn was constantly full of degenerates, wasted men with food smeared over their faces and clothes, women little more than whores beckoning with a finger and a wink. _Monsieur _Thénardier was skilled in sleight of hand, Aimée would watch him slip the rings off fingers and pull out bank notes from pockets as if it was his God-given call to do so. He spent a lot of time during the day held up in an office with Gérard, the two bent over papers and snickering over gold.

Aimée had been put to work, sewing, waitressing…whatever _Madame _Thénardier decided to call her to do. Mostly, she was spending her day taking care of little Éponine. Every now and then the little girl would get attention from her mother, a kiss on the cheek or a whisper of love, but mostly the child spent a lot of time in her room, playing with dolls or singing songs.

On the second night with the Thénardiers, Aimée wandered her way outside to the surrounding woods. There, out in the darkness and away from the reek of piss and booze, Aimée would breathe, her eyes closed and her back pressed against the bark of a tree. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes and she bit the inside of her cheek, craning her head back and feeling the bark of the tree grip at her braid. Stars above watched her and twinkled down, oblivious to her angst.

Wiping one of her eyes, Aimée realized how unfair it was. She couldn't run away, she didn't even know what town she was in and her pockets were bare, no money. The road was a dangerous place, full of thieves and rapists. Besides, she had no idea where Montreuil was. South? East? North?

_Javert…_. Her heart reacted with another yanking twist when his name filled her head. The fingers of her hand pressed to her lips and she clenched her eyes shut. Eyebrows furrowed together from pain and Aimée felt her shoulders hunch forward. She could still taste him in her mouth, still smell him in the air. Hugging herself, she tried to create the warmth from his body.

"Aimée, what are you doing?" the little chiming voice asked, finding her in the dark.

Aimée's head snapped up and she tried to wipe her eyes away from little Éponine as the girl neared her. "Nothing, Éponine. You should be inside."

"I don't want to go inside," the little girl said, her eyes almost black in the darkness. She kicked at some dirt with a small shoe. "I don't like it there."

Sighing, Aimée walked over and heaved Éponine up in her arms. This was not her child. In fact, it was the child of two people she was quickly growing to hate, but she felt some sort of obligation to be there for her. Give her some love and comfort that the child lacked. Éponine reminded Aimée of herself, Gérard cruel behind closed doors but once pleasant for others.

"I'm sorry, 'Ponine," Aimée sighed, swinging the little girl upwards then setting her back down on the ground. When she smiled, she looked like a little, brown-haired angle.

"Tell me a story," the child begged, grabbing Aimée's skirts in her little fists.

"A story?"

"Yes!"

"Alright, come here, to this stump," Aimée said, taking Éponine's hand in her own and sitting down on the large tree stump. The child crawled up in her lap and watched her, waiting expectantly.

"Once upon a time there was a princess," Aimée began, wrapping her arms around 'Ponine and looking up at the stars. "She had blonde hair like spun gold and skin as perfect as marble."

"Like you!" Éponine squealed, putting her small, warm hands on the sides of Aimée's face, pushing her cheeks together and giggling.

"My hair's a dusty gold, not nearly shiny enough for our princess," Aimée said, laughing when Éponine took her hands away. "Anyway, this princess lived in a big, big castle with her father, the king. She was very lonely, no friends or family to spend time with her in the big empty hallways and rooms."

"So she was sad?"

"Yes, sweet, the princess was very sad. Her father was a mean man, always ignoring her and yelling. One day, our princess left the castle to go to the village. She loved seeing the stable boy pet the horses and the baker putting sweets in the windows."

"Like strawberry cakes?" Éponine asked intently, swinging her feet in Aimée's lap.

"Yes, 'Ponine, and chocolate cakes, lemon, vanilla, every cake you could imagine! Anyway, the princess's feet had grown tired, so she sat at the fountain to let her feet rest. She took her shoes off to put her toes in the water and a thief ran by and took them! The princess screamed and then she watched as a knight rode by on a big black horse and grabbed the thief up off the road!

"The knight took the shoes and dragged the thief back to the princess. Then he picked him up and hurled him into the fountain!"

Éponine giggled and Aimée smiled.

" 'I have returned your shoes, my fair maiden,' the knight said in a deep voice when he got of his horse. He removed his helmet and the princess gasped when she saw how handsome his was. A big, strong, rugged man with pale green eyes. The knight knelt before her and gently placed both of her shoes back on her feet.

"The knight leaned over and kissed her hand and picked her up, letting her ride on his horse as he walked her back home. The princess knew she was in love, just one look and she knew. The knight brought her all the way back to the castle and knelt before the king. He asked the king if he could marry the princess, because he fell in love at first sight. The princess pleaded with her father, begging him to let the valiant knight marry her and sweep her away."

Aimée sniffed and wiped at her nose with her hand. Éponine was quiet.

"But the king, a cruel and selfish man, denied the marriage. Crushed, the princess locked herself in her room high up in the castle and cried. At dinner time, a letter came with her supper. It was from the knight, begging her to sneak away in the night and they would run away together and live happily ever after.

"After dinner, the princess packed up all of her favorite belongings into a small bag and waited until night. She heard a whisper at her window and looked down. Below her sat her knight in shining armor, his horse as black as night. The princess, so happy, tied her bed sheets into a long rope and lowered down her bag. Then, quickly and quietly as a ghost, the princess climbed down the rope and climbed up onto her knights horse. Holding on to him tightly, the two rode off in the night and they lived and loved happily ever after."

Éponine clapped her hands, "I liked that story!"

"Me too, angel," Aimée said, remembering for a moment that Melanie used to call her that. Wiping her glistening eyes, Aimée stood and clasped Éponine's hand in her own. "Let's go inside."

The inn was still as chaotic as before, but now the shouts were so slurred together they were barely intelligible. Éponine and Aimée quickly threaded their way to her room. A mattress had been laid out on the floor for Aimée to sleep, but it was little more than a pile of straw covered in a thick burlap-like cloth. Éponine yawned and Aimée helped her get out of the little dress and down to her comfortable chemise. Taking the hairpins from the chocolate curls, Aimée instructed Éponine to get into bed. Tucking the blanket around her and giving the little girl a kiss on the forehead, Aimée took the candle from the bedside table. She brought it to the ground, next to her own pitiful bed in order to change.

"Goodnight, Aimée," Éponine said, looking at her as Aimée unlaced the tight chest of her dress. "I'm happy you came to stay with us."

Aimée's fingers froze on the strings. She looked up to the child, brown eyes wide with innocence. "What?"

"I'm glad you came to stay with us. You're better than Mama."

Aimée felt her throat constrict with painful irony. She was torn away from the man she loved only to be put in this hellhole with a little girl that desperately needed her. Aimée felt like a pawn in one of God's cruel games, forced to be thrust from one place to the next for some kind of higher amusement.

"Well…I'm glad I'm here to help you, 'Poneine , angle," Aimée whispered, her voice very, very quiet. The corset was finally unlaced and Aimée folded it up in her large skirts. With an undershirt and petticoat, Aimée crawled underneath the thin blanket. It reeked undesirably and Aimée tried her best not to think about it when she blew out the small candle. She turned on her side in the darkness and closed her eyes, seeing Javert's face in the darkness. The night rustled around her and her eyes snapped open.

Feeling a warmth nestle against her back she craned her neck backwards, but couldn't see anything in the inkiness. "Éponine?"

"I wanted to sleep with you tonight," the little girl whispered.

Aimée sighed and turned back to facing the wall, nestling her head into the pillow. Éponine was curled up against her like a little brown cat. Aimée moved the blanket so it covered both of them and allowed herself to drift off to sleep to the soft quiet sound of the little girl breathing.

* * *

Javert's hand throbbed underneath the wrapping. Pain added to the anger and it set his teeth on edge. His body lurched with Ombre's as the horse galloped, snorting against the bit. The sound of Ombre's hooves pounding matched his heartbeat. His hands were clutching the reins far too tightly.

Two days had passed and his burned hand still ached. There had been no sign of Gérard Lamenté or Aimée. His men had ransacked inns, questioned courts. They even asked prostitutes if they'd seen any sign of him. And with every shake of the head or answer of 'no', Javert's fury grew, consuming him and making his sight bleed red around the edges. As time went on, his questions grew harsher, as did his methods. Tables were flipped, windows shattered, and bodies slammed against walls as Javert growled his interrogations through is teeth, his lips curled in a snarl.

Now they were at Paris. He was expected to take the job as Chief Inspector of Paris, and it gave him the opportunity he needed to search carriages. The two couldn't run forever, their money would run out and like an ant to sugar, Gérard would make a mistake and head to Paris. Javert would sit and wait, no matter how hard it was for him. His money was running out and employment called to him, a sound he couldn't ignore.

Ombre's mouth was foaming around his reigns when Javert hauled him to a skidding stop in front of the city gates. "Inspector Javert reporting for work," Javert said, looking down at the two guards. One of them flipped through a pile of papers and nodded him through. He needed to find a stable and a fresh horse. Ombre was not the young stallion he used to be and Javert knew he was exhausted. His posse of lower officers. Finding a stable, Javert swung himself out of the saddle and put the reigns into the hands of the stable boy.

"I need a new horse ready immediately," Javert ordered, his voice like stone. The stable boy hurried away from him, fearful and timid. "You are relieved for the evening," Javert told his men, turning and watching them stiffly slide from their saddles, their legs sore from the hard ride. "Rest here. Then I expect you to travel back to your jobs in Montreuil tomorrow or the day next. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Javert watched them go, leading their horses by the reigns, searching for other stables far away from their commander. His gaze was hard. His arms crossed in front of him and he felt the weight of his pistol and saber at his waist. They were unmade promises to Gérard Lamenté, heavy and silent as they patiently waited for their time.

Javert's replacement horse, a tall, slender brown gelding, was brought to him. Settling into the saddle and biting his jaw against the pain in his hand, Javert reached into his coat pocket and flipped a coin to the boy. By the time it pinged to the floor by his feet, Javert had turned and trotted off back to the gate. He passed through without giving the guards a backwards glance.

Once out of the gate, he urged the brown gelding into an easy canter. The horse snorted and pulled against the reigns and Javert loosened his grip, realizing that he was not giving the animal enough slack. He looked around, trying to find anywhere to check. Javert was driven to keep looking, keep questioning, but he knew of no other towns, no other places to look. The moon and stars shone above him and he slowed to a walk, his neck craned backed and he stared at the natural lights above him.

_Show me where to go…I need to find her_, Javert pleaded. "Please…."

Adjusting in his saddle, Javert reached into his pocket and pulled out the little velvet box. It felt like one thousand pounds of cold iron in his palm. Flipping the little lid open, the dark sapphire glinted in the darkness. It screamed at him in the darkness, so loudly it stung his ears.

_You never told her you love her. You never told her you needed her. _

Javert's fist closed around the ring and he looked over the road, the lights of Paris at his back and the light of the stars above him. He swallowed back the chaos that roiled inside him.

"I'm sorry," he spoke quietly into the night. "I'm sorry, Aimée."

_I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I'm sorry I never told you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

Javert would find her. He didn't know when, but he would. He pledged that to the stars above him and the ring he held in his hand. Aimée would stay safe, she was a strong woman, beautiful and resilient. Heaving a weary sigh, Javert turned the horse back to the city gates. Paris swallowed him up with its crowded, bustling chaos. He told himself that somewhere in these walls, Aimée Lamenté was here. Like that convict, Jean Valjean, she would be here, hidden in some nook or cranny. All he had to do was find her. Or all she had to do was get away from Gérard.

He wouldn't let fate win this time.

Javert disappeared in the nighttime crowds of Parisian carriages and beggars disappeared in a manner of minutes.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, had some other things come up, but good news, here's a chapter! We're already 3/4ths done with the story already! I know i said that this was originally a simple fic, i wasn't even DREAMING that it would turn out like this! Thank you all for your support and reviews! Love to hear what you all think! Enjoy!**_

XXVIII: Paris

_**Nine Years Later…**_

The wood from the crate groaned in protest as the woman hauled down on the pry bar. Her jaw clenched in the effort and the scarf she wore over her head absorbed the little beads of sweat from her hairline.

"Hurry!" the child next to her urged, grubby faced with wide eyes.

"Don't tell me to hurry, Gavroche," she grunted back, hauling on the bar. The wood gave one final strain and splintered open. The sound cracked like lightning through the dark alley.

"Gavroche," the woman said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Go to the street, see if anyone's out there. "

"Got it!" the child said, scurrying away, the tails of his little coat flapping. She watched as the streetlamp shined on his head from his spot on the Parisian streets. Gavroche looked right, then left, and right again. Once he was content that the lookout was clear, he turned and hurried back.

"Coast is clear, Aimée," he said. "What's inside?"

"Help me with the lid."

Gavroche, a small boy of eleven, was strong despite his size. He pushed the end of the cover with Aimée and it fell to the ground with the muffled clatter of wood on stone. Inside the crate were large spools of thread nestled in straw. The spools were about a foot tall.

"Help me," Aimée instructed, leaning over in the crate and lifting each spool. Once she lifted the thread, a long, silver piece of metal slid from the center. Gavroche smiled and gave an excited laugh when Aimée held up the metal object.

In the center of each spool of yarn was a sharpened bayonet.

Aimée and Gavroche quickly removed ten bayonets and discarded the yarn in the corner of the alley. Wrapping the weapons up in a thick burlap cloth, she held it out and placed it in Gavroche's outstretched arms. He grunted a little from the weight and Aimée told her little friend to wait a moment. Bending over and digging through the crate, she uncovered two pistols, their barrels shining through the yellowed straw.

"Jackpot," Gavroche breathed, his face alight with mischievous excitement.

"Here, give me the bayonets," Aimée said, taking the bundle from the boy's hands. She set it down on the ground and opened up Gavroche's jacket. "Follow me closely, ok?" she instructed, tucking the two pistols in his waistband, one on each side. She buttoned up his coat and nodded approvingly when it was clear that the lumpiness was hardly noticeable. "Follow me."

Aimée took up the bundle and made sure that the metal bayonets were completely covered by the burlap. Cradling it in her arms, she edged her way to the edge of the alley, staying away from the questioning reach of the streetlights. Her hair was tucked underneath the cloth of her scarf and her stormy blue eyes cut through the darkness easily, trained in the gloom. There were no police officers out on the street tonight.

"Come on," Aimée said, reaching down and taking Gavroche's hand. The image was perfect, a woman carrying a bundle, probably of groceries, and walking with a child, no doubt her very own son.

They moved quickly, boldly walking underneath the streetlights to make an effort to seem casual. Aimée knew that sticking to the shadows wasn't the best way, moving in the darkness caused suspicion, which prompted questioning. It was easiest just to walk normally, no matter how hard it was not to break off at a sprint. Luckily, the night was clear with moonlight and the streets were deserted.

Rounding the corner, Aimée heaved a sigh as the twinkling lights of the ABC Café winked at her from the end of the street. Gavroche's hand tightened in hers and they hurried forward. When they neared enough, Gavroche let go of her hand and scampered for the door. He disappeared inside quickly and Aimée rolled her eyes.

_Headstrong little pup,_ she thought as she approached the door. A young man with dark, shaggy hair and a blue vest over his dirty white shirt stepped towards her before she could feel the warmth inside the café.

"Can I help you?"

"Grantaire, you know it's me. I brought a delivery," Aimée explained, scowling a little as she looked at the young man, barely out of his baby clothes. They all looked so young to her now, even though she wasn't that old, only a few years past thirty. "If you don't want it, I could take my business somewhere else…"

"Wait, come in, you want something to drink?" Grantaire quickly said, grabbing her shoulder and steering her back inside.

"Brandy," Aimée called, nodding at the bartender, an older gentleman that always recognized her when these young schoolboys didn't. She let Grantaire lead her upstairs, her arms full of metal bayonets.

"Aimée! Nice to see you again!" a boy with shaggy blonde hair exclaimed, standing up from a beaten, cluttered table. He came forward and gave her two kisses, one on each cheek, easily taking the burlap from her arms. She smiled at him and noticed that there were more men there than last week.

"New recruits?" she asked, leaning back on the bannister and crossing her arms. Her eyes flitted from man to man, each looking younger than the last. They watched her uncertainly as the blonde one, Enjolras, dropped the bundle on the table. Aimée approached and opened the flap of burlap with a flourish. The shining new bayonets glinted dangerously up at them.

"Where's Gavroche?" she called, looking around.

"Here, Miss Aimée!" he called, his voice muffled as he squeezed past some legs to get back to the table. He had chocolate on his face already. She gave him a smile and knelt, unbuttoning his jacket. She pulled out the two pistols and set them down on the table next to the bayonets.

"The rifles will be coming in at the end of the week," Aimée said, turning to Enjolras and crossing her arms again. She was nothing but business.

"How much?" he asked, his eyes excited as he picked up a pistol and turned it over in his hands.

"Two hundred francs," Aimée demanded, "I won't take any less."

Enjolras nodded, "Marius, can you pay her?"

A young man with an angelic face and freckles stepped forward and opened up a leather wallet. "It would be my pleasure. Anything for the people."

_Such a bold young man with his money,_ Aimée thought a little skeptically as he placed the money in her hand. She pocketed it with a smile.

"Pleasure doing business with you all," she joked, giving them a little curtsey. Aimée grinned when the schoolboys chuckled after her before they all neared the table, turning the bayonets carefully in their hands, muttering excitedly to one another.

After she made her way downstairs, she headed over to the counter.

"Have my brandy ready?" she asked the barkeep. The man was a good acquaintance, but she could never remember his name.

"Of course, _mademoiselle," _he said, turning and filling the glass with her favorite brown alcohol. She sipped and the alcohol rushed through her nostrils and down her throat, searing warmth down into her belly. "I never knew you were a Schoolboy Supporter," he joked, scratching his mustache. The adults of the café were fond of using the joke-name for the young revolutionaries.

"Ha! No, can't say I'm against their cause, but I'm not much of a supporter. I'm more of a supporter of business," she said, taking another sip.

The bartender laughed and she followed suit. Once her drink was finished, she placed a couple coins on the bar and made her way home. The brandy settled heavily and warmly in her stomach and she dared a smile in the darkness of Paris. Money sat in her pocket and she would make a nice profit soon when the rifles came in.

The door of her apartment unlocked with a quiet click and she hurried inside, turning the deadbolt across the door behind her. The apartment was large, but not ridiculously so, and comfortable, paid for from the profits of her popular flower shop down below and the smuggling she did for the Schoolboys on the side. Aimée had never wanted to be a criminal, far from it. She liked to respect the law, staying faithful to it due to her own personal convictions. But, like any human, the idea of money was hard to resist.

Ignoring the bread that sat on her table, Aimée headed to her room. Tall windows lined the walls, three of them that looked out over the Parisian streets, the stars twinkling in ink above. Gazing through the window, she removed her headscarf and tipped her head to the side, allowing her dusty blonde hair to tumble lazily over her shoulder. Too tired to grab her hairbrush, she started to trail her fingers through the strands, scrunching her face whenever she had to give a tug at a tangle. She undid the lace of her dress, a gray one that caused no suspicion at all when she walked down the street, and let it slide to the floor. Leaving the dress in a heap on the floorboards, she padded over to her bed, the fabric of her bloomers whispering with every step. They had started as an American fashion, quick to flow overseas to France, always starving for new ideas. Flopping into her bed, she huffed a sigh and buried her face down into the pillow. Her father's words swam around in her head.

"_We're in Paris now. We make our own luck. We make our own money."_

Gérard Lamenté died three years after he traveled with the Thénardiers to Paris. He had caught some sort of disease down by the docks, something that made his mind go slowly. His last days were spent muttering away at the gutters below his feet. Aimée had found him the next morning, stiff and cold underneath his blanket, the snowflakes not melting when they danced over his skin. She didn't cry.

_Madame _Thénardier had sorted through Gérard's pockets that same morning. Took out

ten francs, a pocket watch, and a silver pen. The filthy woman quickly shoved the belongings in her dress and sent for a wagon for the body. Aimée stood over the man until it arrived. She didn't know how to feel. She wasn't relieved the man was dead…he was still her father, no matter how horrible he had been to her. However, Aimée wasn't about to deny the small bit of relief that flowed through her when she looked at his bluing lips. His fingers were stiff and his eyes were open, seeing some hallucination that wasn't there, that was never there. Aimée knelt over him and outstretched her fingers, reaching to cover his eyes, at least in some sort of respect. But, before her fingertips could touch his cold, dead skin, fire burned behind her eyes. She felt Javert's mouth against hers, still searing after three long years. She felt his arms around her, his breath warm against her skin. She felt the hope that had filled her, the hope that she had obsessed over as days turned into months, and months turned into years.

Aimée drew her hand away from her father after she remembered. The hope dripped away from her that day, quieted into something that she could barely feel.

When the men with the wagon came, she tossed them a coin and said, "Bury him if you like, or cast him away into the river. He'll make it to the sea in time."

After that, Aimée had never been quite the same. She wasn't a cruel woman, just independent and wary in this big new city. She quickly learned how to fend for herself, making money and saving it away from the Thénardiers prying eyes and tapping fingers. Little Éponine was forced to grow quickly. The little girl had a knack for thievery, her little hands able to flutter in and out of pockets without so much as a hint of her intentions. By the time her victim realized that their francs were missing, Éponine was already gone, disappeared in the crowd.

On Aimée's twenty-ninth birthday, she had saved enough money to buy a dusty little shop with a spacious apartment nestled above. As she spoke with potential suppliers and investors and soon had a growing floral business of her very own.

_Just like in Montreuil, _she couldn't stop herself from thinking as she polished the little bell at her door. The thought was soon pushed away. Aimée had learned that in Paris, one could not be vulnerable. She had pushed herself to harden, turn to stone and deflect any kind of harm or heartache.

Back in the present of her bedroom, Aimée Lamenté, all alone in the world around her, turned onto her side so she could gaze out her windows. The stars kept her company, told her stories of ancient gods and horrific creatures. Once, she had read a book on astronomy. When Aimée had heard of the shapes hidden in the stars, she had been mesmerized ever since. Sometimes, she could find them, like mighty Orion or Leo. Other times, she would dream and pick out her own.

Sleep claimed her quickly.

* * *

"Chief Inspector, news from Paris," the officer said, approaching Javert without much hesitation. Javert actually thought the man was a good officer, his name was Hoight, and was about as stern and serious as a stone wall.

_Unfortunately…he looks like he ran in to one,_ Javert thought, taking the letter from Hoight and ignoring the man's broken nose. It was an old wound, probably inflicted when he was a boy, but had never quite healed just right, leaving his face looking squashed and cracked. A frightening man, no doubt about it.

Javert neared the fire in the hearth and broke the red seal. The loopy, unnecessary elegance of a Parisian clerk's handwriting was hard to read in the gloom.

_**Chief Inspector Javert, **_

_** Paris writes to you to request your presence back in Paris. Your work has been exemplary over these last few years keeping the smugglers out of the Parisian walls, but, unfortunately, we're having our own smuggling issues inside the city. Talks of rebellion have risen and we need you and your excellent authority to whip the city police back into shape. **_

_** We request you whenever you can quickly arrive. **_

Javert's eyebrows furrowed and looked to Hoight. "There may be rebellion in Paris."

Hoight looked unconcerned. "Fools, they don't have the stomachs to go through with it, and if they do, they'll be squashed in a day."

"That may be true, but regardless, we have to return to Paris," Javert said, taking a drink from his wineglass before he tossed the dregs into the fireplace. The wine sizzled against the log and Javert turned, feeling the heat against his back. Hoight followed suit, swigging down and finishing his drink with a large gulp.

The common room of _Traveler's Pride_, a dumpy inn on the edge of a small village about five hours from the Paris gate, was crawling with police officers. Javert had set out two years ago on a fierce anti-smuggling campaign with about fifteen men. Altogether, the posse had captured and arrested over a hundred people. Men, mostly, dirty and grungy and thin from hunger. Crates had been overturned, rifles, pistols, and bayonets spilling from inside. Javert had ripped up floorboards, shattered windows, and even set fire to a few barns. Ferocity flowed through his veins, replacing the blood inside him. Officers below him often whispered if he even had a soul in his body.

During a few instances, Javert had actually started to question the state of his soul himself. But as he saddled his massive black horse, the thoughts of souls or humanity was the last thing on his mind. Javert had gone through two horses in the last nine years. Ombre had grown old, weary from the intensity that Javert had demanded from the animal. Afterwards, Javert had been issued a chestnut mare, but demanded another when the horse proved too timid. The poor animal had bolted when the fire of Javert's pistol cracked in its ears. Now, Javert rode a jet black Frisian, much larger than the standard horses the other men rode, but calmer and harder working. The shot of a gun didn't even make the Frisian blink.

"So we're headed back then?" Hoight asked, watching as Javert pulled on his riding gloves and put on his hat. The night was cool and heavily dewed, the dirt road damp beneath the hooves of their horses.

Javert nodded as he tightened a strap on his horse's saddlebags. "You'll be riding with me. The others can follow along in the morning. Let them get some rest for the night."

Hoight nodded as he turned and disappeared back into the inn. Javert pulled himself into his saddle, still fit, but eliciting a groan from his age. The man was fifty-two, yet he worked harder and fought more fiercely than the young men below his command. His face hadn't aged much, a little more peppering in his beard and hair, maybe a couple more wrinkles that stretched from the corners of his eyes, yet he still looked the same.

As he waited, Javert transferred the reigns into his left hand and reached into his pocket with his right. Beneath the moonlight, Javert looked at the white satin square that sat in the darkness of his glove. The handkerchief glowed in the night and he could see the two dark streaks slashed across the front. If Chief Inspector Mattheiu Javert indeed possessed a human soul, it was woven into the fabric of that satin. Wrapping it around his finger, the man watched the door of the inn as his horse shifted its weight below him. When Hoight came back outside, Javert quickly stuffed the fabric back into his pocket. He heard whispers of memories in his ears, but he did his best to ignore them.

"To Paris then," Hoight grunted as he pulled himself back into the saddle. Javert nodded and spurred the large black horse into an easy canter. It would be a long ride, and he had learned his lesson about pushing horses too hard. He actually felt some sadness whenever he thought of his old, faithful horse. When Ombre grew sick and old, Javert had actually shed a few tears in the privacy of the stables, running his hand over the weary horse's tired shoulder and drooping neck.

The two men rode in silence, neither of them comfortable with the ability of small talk. Javert's shoulders began to slump forward as he rode. The Inspector hadn't slept much the night before and he knew it would be a long time before he would get to sleep again. No doubt he'd be crawling into bed only a few hours before the sun rose. Javert tried to mentally prepare himself for Paris. It had been a while. He'd been away from the hustle and bustle for quite some time, nearly two years. The countryside had treated him well, wide and open, with few rules to contain his ego. However, rules and order in Paris were unheard of. Javert wasn't exactly unknown on the city streets either. He wasn't popular in the eyes of the common folk, all filthy and starving.

_Rebellion seems to be all the rage these last few decades_, Javert mused. The people chomped at the bit when faced with the opportunity for violence. They thought it was an honorable thing, overthrowing the rich to spread the wealth to scum and criminals. Each young boy fancied himself as Robin Hood, trying to overthrow the pompous king. Javert wrinkled his nose as he thought. The French no doubt had idolized the Americans over the ocean, the way they overthrew the Brits and gave the country to the "people."

The two stopped on the road twice or three times, drinking from canteens and allowing their horses to rest. Finally, after long, sore hours of travel, the lights of Paris shone down the road. Javert and Hoight approached the gate, his jaw set and mouth in a frown. The city smelled disgusting, even though the two men were sitting on the other side of the gate. Muck, filth, piss, soured wine, smoke, and decay all hung like a haze over the city, so thick Javert brought a hand up to his nose. He breathed through the cloth of his gloves for a few moments before he grew used to the smell.

Three guards handed the gate. Two of them were seated on stools, bent over the top of a barrel. Two dice were sitting amongst a small pile of coins and the third man was leaning up against the wall of Paris, a pipe sticking out from between his lips. Two oil lamps hung at the gate, casting a weak yellow light over them.

"Papers," the guard with the pipe drawled, ignoring the Inspector's uniform. Javert handed the guard the letter he had received hours ago. From the light of his lamp, the guard read the words.

"Pleasure to see you back in our city, Chief Inspector Javert," the guard said, his dark moustache wiggling with his words. He looked up and handed the paper back to the Inspector. "How long has it been?"

"Two years," Javert grunted, hoping that the guard would just open the gate and let them through.

"Paris could surely use you," the guard said, clapping his hands at his two comrades. They quickly stood and went to unlock the gates. "Best of luck," he said, standing aside and letting Javert and Hoight to pass through.

Even though it was late at night, the whispers of dawn creeping in behind Javert's horse, people were still standing in the streets. Some looked up at him as he passed, eyes glazed over and unseeing.

_Probably drunk or hazed in opium_, Javert thought, his judgmental gaze boring into the people as he wound his way to the _Palais de Justice_, a massive building whose doorway was barred by four stone pillars. Pulling the great black horse to a stop, Javert dismounted and hurried up the steps, Hoight puffing behind him. Hoight had never been much for moving quickly.

The _Palais de Justice _would normally have been closed at this time of night, but a few judges were still inside, awaiting Javert's arrival. A clerk answered his booming knock and quietly led him to a massive, ornate marble hall. Behind an elevated bench sat two older gentlemen, their black hats sitting bulbously atop their heads, almost making them look like chess pawns. Javert approached the bench, back straight and fists closed.

"Chief Inspector Javert, reporting," Javert said, giving them a bow.

"Ah, nice to see you, Inspector," one of the pawns said, wire rimmed spectacles perched too far down on his nose. "We've stayed up for you."

Javert didn't like the way the judge had spoken, but he held his tongue.

"I trust you can start work in the morning?" the judge said, "Or, the afternoon if you need more rest."

"I shall start patrol in the morning."

"Good," the judge said, looking up and removing his glasses. He rubbed a skinny finger in the corner of his eye. "Pay close attention to the young people in the city. Young men have been the worst threat of revolution. Also keep a look for smugglers. We've heard speculation that someone keeps supplying these revolutionaries with weapons. No doubt they're stockpiling them."

"Any thought of when this will explode?" Javert asked.

"General Lamarque has grown very sick. The people rally for him. The sicker he gets, the more hostile these revolutionaries grow. I shudder to think what would happen if the man dies."

"Understood, Your Honor," Javert said, giving him a bow and turning to leave. Hoight did the same and followed him out.

"General Lamarque?" the ugly man asked, doing his best to stay instep next to his commanding officer.

"A war hero," Javert said, unimpressed, "Supposedly he stood up for the people. The common folk."

"I see."

"Paris is a tinderbox, Hoight," Javert admitted once they made it through the heavy, filigreed doors of the _Palais de Justice._ The night was still cool and Javert wanted to return to his old apartment. He had locked it up before his crusade and was anxious to see if it had stayed secure. "It's only a matter of time before the flames break. We have to rally before they do."

"What are your plans, Inspector?"

"Smother them with water before they have a chance to spark."


	29. Chapter 29

_**Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait! Some other stuff had come up, but I'll always make time for our dear Aimee and Javert. Hope you guys enjoy! Reviews always welcome**_

XXIX: Legrande

"Father's driving me up a wall," Éponine huffed, leaning over Aimée's counter. Aimée looked at her as she made her way around the shop, putting up bouquets in the shelves and adjusting the furniture.

"Why?" the older woman asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and rolling her eyes when she was sure 'Ponine wouldn't see.

"He wants me to keep robbing, but I don't want to. I'm done with that petty stuff."

"You're moving on to bigger and better crimes?" Aimée teased, settling down in the sofa that sat in front of the hearth. It was a large fireplace, keeping the shop warm and welcoming even in winter. The heat was nice, allowing the flowers to survive longer. The ashes in it were stale, it hadn't been lit for months. The early summer was comfortable.

"Let me help you smuggle," Éponine begged, standing up and hurrying over.

Aimée looked at her and noticed how young she looked, barely a woman. She remembered herself at that age, pining over the stern and harsh man fate had taken from her so many times. Éponine's wide, brown eyes were eager and pleading.

"No," Aimée said, picking up a book and opening it.

"Oh come on! Why not? You let that kid help you."

"That kid is your brother, or have you forgotten?" Aimée asked, turning the page calmly.

"He ran away to the streets when he was young, I barely got a chance to treat him like a brother. And besides, why do you let him help you, but not me?"

"Because Gavroche doesn't have anyone else, Éponine. He's a child of the streets, he has no obligations to anyone but himself. And besides, he looks like he could be my son. He doesn't cause suspicion."

Éponine crossed her arms. "So? I'm pretty much your daughter."

Aimée closed her book and pinched the bridge of her nose with her slender fingers. "Éponine, I took care of you for a few years. I'm not anywhere near a mother." Éponine had a habit of doing this, trying to play Aimée's heartstrings like her very own harp. Aimée was patient, the young brunette probably wasn't aware of what she was doing. She was admirable, strong-willed, quiet, beautiful, and smart. However, Aimée was unsure of how she should feel. After all, the Thénardiers were cruel, disgusting people that helped Aimée's father destroy her life.

'Ponine hadn't liked Aimée's words, no matter how true they were.

"I just want to help. I'm tired of picking pockets."

"What about that boy you like? What was his name?"

"Marius?"

"Yes, Marius. What about him? I'm sure he'd have something for you to do. Why are you so keen on helping those want-to-be revolutionaries anyway?" Aimée asked, inspecting her nails.

Éponine was quiet and Aimée glanced up in time to see her bite her lip and look down. "Marius has yet to look at me with anything besides friendship."

"But he cares about you?"

Éponine nodded, "At least, I tell myself he does."

"This is the real reason why you want to start smuggling with me, isn't it?" Aimée asked, standing up and giving the young woman a knowing smile. "You want to seem dangerous and romantic. Involved with the rebellion Marius wants to start."

The blush that swarmed Éponine's cheeks was fierce. "What if it is?"

"Then that's not a good reason," Aimée said, walking past the young woman and standing behind counter. She brought out a basket and stepped to the side room, taking out bundles of flowers.

"Why not?" Éponine yelled after her.

"Because. You're doing it for someone else," Aimée explained coolly, picking out and inspecting some cherry red tulips. "That means that, god forbid, you fail or something happens to you, someone would know. Someone else would get hurt."

"Is that why you do it? Because you think you're all alone? Because you think that if you die or get arrested, no one would care?"

Aimée was silent, focusing harder on her flowers. She started to arrange them in the basket.

"Because you're wrong, Aimée."

Her jaw clenched with Éponine's words. She closed her eyes and heaved a very weary sigh.

"Éponine."

"At least let me help with the rifles. You'll need more than Gavroche."

Aimée ran a hand over her face, smelling the green scent of the flower stems. "Fine. You want to help? Fine."

Éponine gave an excited squeal and clapped her hands, something very uncharacteristic of a weapon's smuggler. Aimée shook her head, slightly annoyed, but didn't deny the small smile that graced her lips.

"This is going to be exciting. We have to be more careful, especially that Chief Inspector Javert is back in the city," Éponine said hurriedly, biting her lips.

The basket fell to the floor, the flowers spilling out from inside. Aimée's head snapped up, eyes wide and her mouth hung slightly open. "What did you say?"

"What, about Javert? Haven't you heard of him? Oh, I guess not, you never had an issue with the law before. You just hid here in your shop," Éponine laughed. It took all of Aimée's self-control not to grab a hold of her and shake the information from her mouth. Éponine spoke again. "He issued out justice ruthlessly, cruel man. He left around two years ago for some kind of anti-crime campaign or something. He actually almost caught me once or twice when I was slipping pockets."

"What-What does this man look like?" Aimée asked, coming slowly from around the counter, one hand brought up to her neck.

Éponine looked uneasily down at the spilled flowers. "Um…beard, angry eyes, tall, sturdy. Like an ox."

Aimée almost choked.

"And he's back? Back in the city?"

"Yes. Aimée, are you alright? Why the questions?"

"I just…want to know what we're dealing with, that's all," Aimée said quickly, waving her hand. She noticed that her basket had spilled and hurried back behind the counter and scooped them back up. "Do you think he's going to be a problem?"

_Keep asking questions related to business. Keep calm._

"Javert? He could be. He's spoken out against smugglers before. In fact, now that I think back, that was the reason he left Paris in the first place. Hunting down smugglers. But he won't suspect two women. We'll be fine." Éponine gave Aimée a smile and she tried to return it, but it almost came out as a grimace.

Inside, Aimée's stomach was tied up in knots. _Javert. _Nine years. Nine long years since Aimée had seen him. She hadn't thought about him in so long, he had become almost like a dream. Something Aimée herself began to wonder actually existed. Now he was here, in this city. He could be just down the street!

"I have to get back to the parents," Éponine said, giving Aimée one more quizzical look. "You'll be alright? You seem a little off."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'll be alright. I think I'm just getting a little hungry. Go on home," Aimée said, waving her hand.

Éponine shrugged and headed towards the door.

"Éponine?" Aimée called before the door could click shut. "Don't tell the Thénardiers that you're helping me."

Her nod was serious before her dark hair disappeared through the door.

* * *

"Sir, fight in the streets," Hoight muttered, riding up to Javert and pointing. Javert turned and looked. He was issued a new uniform now that he was back in Paris, black coat with silver garb. He would never admit how stifling hot it was in the early summer sun. His hat shaded his eyes, the brim turned at a different angle with different rank.

"Degenerates," Javert muttered, swinging himself off of his horse and hurrying over. He heard a woman scream his name, loud and shrill, and he wasn't surprised that they knew his name, but the scuffle continued. Two full-grown men with bystanders. A blonde-haired young woman with a day bonnet watched, horrified and another haggled woman clutching at a lumpy bundle covered in rags screamed at the men.

"What's going on here!?" he demanded. Upon hearing his roar, the fighters broke apart. One stared at him, skinny and sick, with a festering, tangled wig frizzing form his head. The other kept his back to him. Javert saw a grubby child rush past him, trying to flee the situation He quickly caught up the dirty little pup and hoisted him up in the air. "Tell me, what's the story?" He set down the child when he saw all the dirty men line up obediently. He recognized the one with the wig.

"Well, look at all of you, here. Quite a sight. I recognized you," he said, pointing to Thénardier. He looked around and noticed one less person. "Where'd that other one go? The man who was fighting? Why on earth would he run?" Javert asked, not helping his lip curling in anger.

Thénardier slunk forward like a cat trying to please a large dog. "Ahem, _Monsieur _Chief Inspector. That man, long ago, stole my daughter from me when he was running from the law. Nine years."

"Running from the law?" Javert's eyes narrowed.

"Aye, Sir," Thénardier gave a little smile, knowing that he had a piece of information that Javert wanted. "Valjean, his name was."

Javert felt his hands curl into fists. "Jean Valjean? Stole your daughter?"

"Aye, Collete"

"Cosette," the woman, Thénardier's wife, corrected.

That night so long ago, when Javert was chasing the convict through the winding Parisian streets, he remembered the child. A little girl.

"So, he's still here," Javert murmured, his attention gone from Thénardier. "Still in this city, still a criminal."

_I'll find him. He can't be far away. I almost had him!_

"_Monsieur, _since there's no victim here…and I gave you some good information...would

there be any sort of reward, perchance?"

Javert looked at the sewer rat and noticed how disgustingly close he was standing. Thénardier smelled like death, dirty and filthy and rank. Clenching his jaw, Javert took a few measured steps away.

"Clear this garbage off the street, Thénardier," Javert said, turning to leave. Hoight was still sitting with the horses a few steps off.

"Valjean was just here," Javert grumbled, getting back up in the saddle and steering the massive horse away from the Thénardiers.

"Who?"

"Jean Valjean, an old convict," Javert said, looking down at the people he passed, Hoight's horse plodding on next to him.

"Oh, that one that tried to run the rosary factory in Montreuil, weren't you stationed there?"

"Yes," Javert growled.

Hoight decided not to speak again.

The din of the city clouded Javert's ears, filled him with the creak of wagons, shouts of people, and clop of hooves. He let his mind wander back to Montreuil, as he so often did. The handkerchief felt heavy in his pocket, almost like a sheet of iron, and it took some self-control to keep his hands on the reigns. Javert found himself glancing at every woman he came across, his eyes following them if they had blonde hair. If Valjean was still living in Paris, there was a chance that Aimée had found her way here. She wasn't anywhere else, he had looked and looked. Whenever he left Paris, he kept an eye out for her, searching for a woman with dusty blonde hair and eyes that raged like the cool ocean. He thought of the little velvet box he kept with him in his bag. The sapphire and diamond inside sparkled, even after all the years Javert had kept it hidden away. The ring was hopeful, pushing Javert onwards.

Javert turned his horse down a different street and Hoight followed him. His partner finally spoke again. "Where are we headed?"

"I'm getting a layout of the city," Javert said, blinking, but keeping his eyes forward as they patrolled, "I haven't been in Paris for two years. Many things have changed. Then I'm going back to the _Palais, _I have to meet with someone who can tell me where to stay. Probably the Chief Justice."

"Ah, very good."

The sun shone down on the two men, but Paris still looked washed-out and gray. Children scurried to and fro like packs of rats, quick and sneaky. There was a group of children swarming towards a depleting elephant statue that stood on the very grounds where the Bastille once stood. Javert watched as the children scuttled around the statues pillar-like feet before he turned his attention back to the people. Women kept their eyes averted, looking down or away when the officers rode through. Some men nodded, but most just stared past them. Others, younger men, it seemed, gave Javert and Hoight dark looks. Javert's brows furrowed and his jaw set when he remembered why he was here. These young boys reeked of rebellion.

Hoight and Javert made their way across the arched bridge that stretched over the grey river Seine. Across the bride and up the road was the towering giant of the _Palais de Justice_. Javert was in no hurry, but he did hope that he would be stationed back in his old home. Where he stayed the first time he had left Aimée….

Javert groaned. _Why must everything come back to her? Everything I see or think…it's all her._

"The _Palais _is certainly a handsome building, isn't it?" Hoight asked, reaching up and scratching his chin. Javert turned and looked at Hoight's ugly face just in time to see him run his tongue along his teeth.

Javert's nose wrinkled and he looked at the towering building in front of them. "Yes, I suppose it is. Solemn. Appropriate I think, the law is unforgiving and the people need to see that."

"Do you think of anything else besides the law, Javert? Good food? Fine wine? The warmth of a lady-friend?" Hoight gave an obscene laugh.

"That is far from appropriate, Officer Hoight," Javert said, momentarily taken aback from his partner's boldness. The shock dissipated into annoyance and Javert spoke again. "When you dedicate your life to the law as much as I have, you don't have time for anything else."

Hoight's laughter died away, "You're as human as a statue, Inspector."

"Officer Hoight, we are not friends, and I do not appreciate your lack of maturity. I think you should remind yourself who I am and who you are," Javert growled.

"Understood."

Javert's mood darkened by the time they arrived at through the guarded, wrought iron gates of the _Palais de Justice. _He was rude to the clerk who opened the door.

"I need to speak with the Superior Commander of the Courts," Javert demanded.

"Do you have an appointment?" the clerk asked, a little timid. He then noticed Javert's uniform and quickly nodded, "Never mind. Of course, Chief Inspector."

Javert removed his hat and turned behind him, looking at Hoight, "Stay here." Hoight sighed, but nodded.

"This way, Chief Inspector," the clerk said, leading Javert down the ornate hallway of the _Palais. _Javert had never liked the building. He thought it was too flashy, too ornate, for a place of the law. He liked the courthouse in Montreuil, small but strong, with dark wood walls and brick exterior. This, this was just too much. But then again, Paris liked its décor.

The room that Javert was led to was a courtroom, empty, safe for an older man hunched over some papers on the back bench. The clerk gave him a little bow, which went unseen, and cleared his throat to announce Javert.

"Chief Inspector Javert to see you, Chief Justice Legrande."

Justice Legrande looked up, and Javert realized that he was strong in his age, maybe sixty, with bright onyx eyes and a very straight nose. He was bald under his judge's cap, but his face was framed with two white mutton chops. Legrande rose and stepped down from his elevated seat. His black robes whispered when he moved. The man stood straight, strong in his age, and he reached for the Inspector. The Chief Justice's grip was strong when he shook Javert's hand.

"Chief Inspector, nice to see you," Legrande said. He didn't smile, but his voice wast easy.

Javert nodded, "Likewise, Justice Legrande."

"The reason behind your visit?" Legrande wasn't a man too fond of wasting time with small talk.

"I was inquiring as to where I was supposed to reside."

"Ah, one must have a home," Legrande said, nodded as he moved past Javert. "Walk with me for a moment, Inspector."

The two left the courtroom and made their way down the hallway. Legrande moved well for his age, long strides, shoulders squared. "All this gold trash, makes it look like a woman decorated the place," Legrande grumbled, waving his hand and scowling at the walls. "This place is supposed to instill fear and obedience."

"I couldn't agree more, sir."

Legrande gave a harsh bark of a laugh. "Follow me down to the cells, Javert, I have to inspect them."

The two located the winding staircase and made their way down. "Where did you stay before? God, how long ago was that?"

"Nearly seventeen years."

"Ah, I was still a judge back then."

"I had a government issued home, but I don't know if it's still empty."

"I'll send someone over to look. If someone is living there, we'll relocate them before night. If you stay on patrol for the rest of the day, I have no doubt your home will be ready for you when your shift ends."

"Thank you sir."

"You've come back because of the fear of rebellion, is that correct?" Legrande asked as the stairs still spiraled downwards. The air around them staled and grew cooler. Javert could see the glimmer of moisture on the stone walls of the _Palais's _cellar. The glow or torches awaited them in the crypt.

"That's right, sir. My anti-smuggling campaign was complete and I was requested back to Paris."

"Good, we need men like you. This rebellion will be nothing. A bunch of schoolboys hoping to impress their lady-loves."

Javert heard the clank of chains and muttered moans stretched down the underground tunnel. He knew he was in the dungeons now. Legrande clasped his arms in front of him and continued walking. "The cells were over capacity for a few years," Legrande said as the first few jail cells came into view. The smell down there was atrocious, death and despair mixed with the wretchedness of the human body. "The famine was cruel to Paris and it turned the people cruel as well."

"I see," Javert said, looking into a cell to his left. A man inside was huddled up on a dirty pile of straw covered in burlap, he was whispering, grimy hair covering his face and his forehead pressed to the damp cold stone.

"I make a point to look at the cells every week. Make sure the guards are running things correctly, check for deaths, that sort of thing." Legrande reached out and trailed his white fingers along the bars as he walked. "As of now, the cells have been fairly empty. A burglar here or there, but not that much."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, but why the drop? Times haven't gotten any easier," Javert asked.

"This is Paris, Javert," Legrande said, stopping in the middle of the tunnel and turning to look at him. He looked like a skeleton in the glow of the lamps, hollowed cheeks and black eyes, thin but tough. "If we captured every murderer, every rapist, every thief, there would be no more people of on the streets. We don't have the space. Every now and then we make arrests to uphold the reputation, have the people fear us."

Javert's brow furrowed.

"That's why it's good you've arrived back, Inspector," Legrande said, shifting his weight and looking right into Javert's pale green eyes. "People no doubt know your face. Once you squash this rebellion, the people will be too scared to try anything else."

Javert was quiet as Legrande gave a smile, his thin lips parting in a small grin, "This rebellion won't last long if these children manage to buck up the nerve to start it in the first place. I'm counting on you to end this, Chief Inspector. I will send someone to the house and you may report back there at the end of your patrol. I trust you can find your way back up?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you," Javert gave Chief Justice Legrande a bow and turned to walk back down the lit tunnel. He felt Legrande's eyes on his back until the cells disappeared and he turned back to the stairway. Javert climbed quickly, almost thankful to be back in the filigreed hall of the upper _Palais. _The fresh air graced his lungs, and Javert realized that the stink of Paris was better than the reek of the dungeon's despair.


	30. Chapter 30

_**Hey guys! 'Nother chapter for you all! Love to hear what you think, as always. Enjoy!**_

XXX: What Was Once Alone

Javert stood in the doorway, staring at the room in front of him. He couldn't deny how painfully empty it was, pitiful and dusty. The house had sat abandoned for nearly six years, an officer had once lived there with his family, but they had moved out when the young man died from disease of the lungs. Ever since then, it was empty, the air inside its walls growing stale and dusty. A maid had come in and cleaned, put on fresh linens, swept, mopped, cleaned out the hearth downstairs, and replaced the washbasins and pitchers. When he first arrived, the judge he reported to had arranged for his belongings to be shipped from the Traveler's Pride, the tavern where Javert had been staying before he was requested back into Paris. Javert had gone around the home and lit a few lamps. When his luggage arrived a few hours ago, Javert had waved off the delivery man, preferring to handle the cedar chest himself.

He managed to carry it up the stairs and push it to the foot of his bed. Then he had gone downstairs and retrieved the other trunk full of his clothes. He neatly placed them in his wardrobe, making sure everything was straight and pressed, before he went back downstairs. Javert settled down in the kitchen, empty and bare, and realized he had forgotten to buy food. He sat down at the small table and looked out the window. It was long past dark. No place would be open. Heaving a sigh through his nose, Javert leaned forward and placed his hands on his temples, closing his eyes. Swallowing past the grumble of his stomach, Javert sat like that for a moment before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. The satin still flowed like cool water over his fingertips and Javert cocked his head to the side as he stared at the square intently. He laid it flat on the wood surface of the table and smoothed it out with his hands, pulling the corners and lining up the edge perfectly to the end of the tabletop. He fiddled with it for a moment, making it as perfect as he could, pulling a particular corner minutely and squinting a little in concentration. When he was content with its exact placement, Javert leaned back in his chair and stared at the two stains. They whispered to him, reminded him of the woman he loved and lost. Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled out the little velvet box. He set it next to the handkerchief, moving it so it was just as perfect. Flicking open the lid with his finger, he watched the dark sapphire sparkle with the memory of her eyes. Javert felt his mouth turn down harshly and he clenched his eyes shut.

Nights like this were once very common for him. He would sit up, stare at his belongings, read the letters that she had kept and run his fingers over the stains of red and kohl. He leaned forward until his tired, lined forehead was graced by the cool touch of satin and he inhaled deeply, wracking his brain to try and remember the vanilla and lilac of her skin. Javert was rewarded with the dusky scent of the wool of his pocket. In a moment of near crippling weakness, Javert pressed the stains to his lips and felt his jaw tighten. Her name escaped his lips in one ragged breath and he lifted his head to stare at her ring. The distant memory of her laughter shot through his ears whenever the sapphire glinted in the murky light. When the pain grew too much in Javert's chest, he closed the box and pocketed it. He tried his best to hope. She could be anywhere in this city. Everyone came to Paris. If Valjean was there, the possibilities were endless.

Carefully, gingerly, Javert folded up the handkerchief and cradled it in his hand as leaned over and doused the lamp before he climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. The night closed around him and his stomach growled again, but he ignored it, focusing on the glow of his bedroom, the satin in his hand heating his skin. In the room, he knelt and gently opened up the chest and placed the ring box inside. Closing the lid gently, he stood back up and headed to his bed. He sat on the edge of the stiff mattress and placed the satin on the bedside table before he leaned over and started to remove his shoes. Leaning back up, Javert undid the stiff collar of his jacket and removed it, relieved once the heavy blackness was off his shoulders. It had killed him in the early June sunlight, and he was happy to be rid of it. Javert was pleased to see that the maid who had readied the house had left him a pitcher of water and a bar of soap. He stripped down to just his trousers, his chest bare, and cleaned himself.

The night was warm enough, Javert slept without a shirt in his pants, sprawled out on his bed above the covers. He craned his neck, trying to see out the large window that sat across the room to his left. However, it was too dark to see much. He lay in his bed for a moment, but found that sleep wasn't going to come for a while. Furrowing his brow, Javert turned over and stood up. The man pulled on an undershirt and neared the window. He opened it, lifting it in its pane and looked down. A balcony stretched out nearly ten feet in front of his building, two bronze eagles perched on either corner. Cautiously, Javert climbed out his window and stood solidly on the ledge. The night was clear and warm, the stars staring down at him like they always did, watching his struggles and successes. He could see the multicolored masterpiece of Notre Dame, its large bell towers casting shadows over the city. He neared the edge, his feet dangerously close to the Javert tipped his head upwards, watching the stars, his downturned green eyes glinting as he wondered what stretched out beyond the twinkling lights, how far away the gates of heaven stood.

Days passed, and Aimée found herself pressed close to a wall, watching in the night. She was wearing dark trousers, shocking for a woman, but necessary for the type of job she needed to complete, with a ruddy brown shirt. Her hair was pulled away in a tight braid. Éponine crouched behind her, wearing men's clothes as well, her hair tied up away from her face. The young girl's heart had stopped when she heard the faint clop of hooves on cobblestone and Aimée pushed her down, hidden in the shadows. Aimée held her breath as she looked out over the street. When she was happy that no one had spotted them, she peeked her head around the corner, keeping one hand extended to block Éponine from moving.

"Ok, the coast is clear, but we have to hurry," Aimée said, standing and slipping out the alley and into the street. The two women hurried, slinking to the shadows like two cats. Before, Aimée wasn't afraid to walk about in the open with Gavroche toting at her side, but this was a different job entirely. This called for stealth.

"Where are we going again?" Éponine whispered as they flitted from shadow to shadow, stopping every now and then to listen.

"To the river side, past the _Palais de Justice_, there will be a boat there, that's where we pick up our rifles."

"That's the busiest part of the city!" Éponine exclaimed in a whisper.

"Exactly, easy to slip away if we're followed or spotted. Just trust me, I've been doing this for years."

"Alright," Éponine said warily.

As they neared the river, the scummy stink of the Seines's waters crowded their senses and Aimée ducked down a small culvert. Éponine's nose curled when she neared it, but she was relieved to see that it was just a rain duct and not connected to the sewers. Hunching over, she slipped in behind Aimée. The blonde woman looked at her, her back pressed against the slick stone.

"Ok, we'll follow this down to the riverside. There will be a small boat waiting there for us. We'll grab the rifles, bundle them up, and head back to the shop."

"Right," Éponine said, nodding. The excitement made her bite her lip and her eyes widened.

Aimée gave her a smile. "This is the most dangerous part. If you can make it through this, I might reconsider hiring you permanently."

Éponine grinned, but it was wiped away quickly when Aimée hurried down the duct, bidding her accomplice to follow. The two scuttled along like rats, their footsteps light and fleeting on the damp stone culvert. It grew narrower as they went, and Aimée could feel the stone brushing along both her arms as they went along. The ceiling ducked and soon they were nearly bent over in half trying to squeeze through the tunnel. Up ahead, she felt the gust of breeze, the fishy smell of the Seine's waters floating along with it. Aimée was relieved when she neared the edge of the culvert. The green, murky waters flowed thickly below her feet, nearly three hundred yards across. An arched bridge hung over the waters about a quarter of a mile up and on the other side, the commanding silhouette of the _Palais de Justice_ loomed overhead.

"Where's the boat?" Éponine asked behind her, the tunnel too narrow for her to stand next to Aimée.

"It'll be here," Aimée was sure. She cupped her hands and whistled three times, the sound starting low and then stabbing upwards sharply in a high pitch. The two waited a moment, then, beyond, following the current, the signal was repeated. Aimée smiled when a lantern bobbed in the gloominess. "There," she said, pointing.

The little boat neared them, barely more than a narrow gondola. The man on board was a young fellow, thirty, maybe, with mousy blonde hair tied back in a ribbon. When he neared the culvert, he tossed out a rope. Aimée caught it and tied it to a metal loop stamped into the cement wall around them.

"Pleasure to see you again, _Mademoiselle _Lamenté," the smuggler said, giving her a crooked grin and taking off his ratty cap in a fake bow.

"Hello, Simon," Aimée said, slipping on board and shaking Simon's dirty hand. "Although I would suggest you keep it down a little. We don't want anyone spotting us."

"Understood," Simon said, leaning over and spitting into the river. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and went towards the back of the boat. Aimée felt it lurch beneath her feet and she extended her arms, trying to balance. "I do prefer you when you are wearing a dress though."

"Hush," she said, watching as he took out a bundle of burlap. "How many?"

"Twenty, quite a haul," Simon grunted, handing her three. Aimée grabbed them and handed them off to Éponine, who was waiting back in the culvert.

"That's more than I had expected," Aimée said, noting how heavy each rifle was when she lifted them into her arms. She noted how far back the shop was, nearly a mile. Ten rifles would be a struggle, for sure.

"Any less wouldn't be worth the risk."

"I suppose."

The metal and wood of the guns clicked together as they worked, and soon they were all transferred over into the gutter.

"How much are the boys giving you for this bunch?" Simon asked, reaching into his pocket and taking out a bundle of dried leaves and sticking it into his mouth. He had gotten a taste of American tobacco when he had traveled there during a trade expedition. Aimée was disgusted by it, it turned his spit into a sordid black sludge.

"I won't take any less than fifteen hundred francs," Aimée said, taking the two sheets of burlap and climbing out of the boat. "Especially since the risk has gone up. More officers in Paris."

"Hmm," Simon said, spitting, "Seems to me that I should've asked for more money from you in the first place."

"Too late, Simon, I already paid you for your services," Aimée teased, giving him a wink and untying the rope. Simon pushed away from the cement wall and gave her another bow before he settled back down into his boat and started rowing.

Aimée watched him disappear in the smelly darkness and turned. "Bundle those up, you take ten and so will I."

"These are going to be heavy," Éponine said, wrapping up half in burlap and grunting when she handed them to Aimée. She was amazed when the weight of the rifles settled into her arms.

"My god!" she coughed, wrapping her arms around the bundle as best she could. "Just, hurry. The sooner we get back, the better.

"Right," Éponine said, making her way down the narrow culvert. It was slow going at first and the two stopped to let their arms rest in the safety of the gutter. "Once we get out in the street, we probably won't be able to rest," Aimée explained. As the rounded walls widened, the going got easier. They had room to carry the rifles more comfortably.

"Alright, there's no one out in the street," Éponine said, setting down the guns and searching the road.

"Ok, see that alley that we came out of? The one to the right and down the road? Go to that one," Aimée instructed.

Éponine nodded and scurried out into the street. Aimée followed suit, clutching at the bundle as best she could. Her arms burned from the weight and her footing was sloppy as she tried to reach the ally as quickly as possible. Back in the safety of the shadows, Aimée leaned against the wall, taking a moment to catch her breath.

"This is unbearable!" Éponine whispered, struggling with the weight of the guns. "Ten guns is too much."

"You wanted to help," Aimée said, getting up and pushing onwards.

"Not so fast!" Éponine pleaded, puffing.

"HALT! Who goes there?" A booming voice bellowed. Aimée and Éponine froze turning and looking behind them. Aimée felt the roar of a command shoot down into her feet and cement her in place, almost causing the rifles to slip from her arms. The pounding of hooves echoed nearer. Someone had seen them dart into the alley.

"What are you doing?" Éponine said, not worried about being quiet now that they were found. "Run!"

Aimée snapped back to attention and turned. Her feet pounded beneath her and her arms screamed from the heaviness of the rifles.

"After them!" harsh voices commanded. The hooves echoed louder and Aimée knew that they were in the side street.

"This way!" Éponine yelled, turning sharply left and running as fast as she could. Aimée could feel her breath escape her quickly and harshly, not providing the air she needed. The guns were so heavy in her arms, and awkward. She felt her legs begin to burn and her footing became sloppy.

"I can't run," Aimée said, the echo of their pursuers a growing roar behind them. "Take these and hide, I'll run back, they'll chase me."

"What? No!" Éponine said, trying to push away the bundle of guns Aimée was stuffing into her arms. The combined weight made Éponine bend over. "You can't! I can't manage these."

"If they catch me, you can hide and wait for help, or stash them and have the boys come back. I'll lie. I'll be fine, go!" Aimée said hurriedly, trying to get Éponine to hide behind some abandoned crates. When the hooves continued to grow louder, Aimée finally gave Éponine a harsh shove, trying to make her understand. "Get out of here, dammit!"

Before her accomplice could protest again, Aimée turned and hurried towards the horsemen. When she was at the mouth of the alley, she darted back out into the open.

"You there, stop! In the name of the law!" The voice almost made Aimée slip and stumble. It was familiar, so familiar….

Then, Aimée actually did stumble when she realized who was commanding her, who was riding her down.

_Javert…._

It took all of her self-control not to stop and run to him, pull him off his horse. Hold his face in her hands and whisper, "I've found you…."

"If you don't stop, I'm going to shoot!" Javert threatened. Aimée closed her eyes as the world crashed in on her. She slowed, and held her arms in the darkness. The horses neared and she heard them snort and stomp the ground. The sound of trousers sliding across a leather saddle and solid footsteps. She couldn't see him behind her, but she sensed his movement, deliberate and practiced.

"Who is she?" a thick voice asked behind them. Her braid and slender form hadn't fooled anyone, not even in the men's clothes.

Aimée felt thick, calloused hands enclose her wrist and she felt her skin burn. The warmth of his hands was replaced by the clench of cold steel binds. "You're under arrest," she heard him say. There was no doubt that it was Javert. "Why were you running?"

She couldn't bring herself to speak, the lump in her throat suffocating her.

"Answer me," Javert demanded, grabbing onto her arm and spinning her to face him. She Kept her head down as he shackled her other wrist. When he was finished, she decided to lift her head. Aimée tried to stay as calm as possible as she looked into the face of the man she had loved so long ago. Time had been kind to him. He was hardly changed, a little more grey in his beard and hair, a few more lines on his face, but he was still as handsome and commanding as ever. The cold binds on her wrists reminded her that she could not touch him, could not speak.

The only difference was his eye. Pale green and still beautiful to her…but they had hardened. Turned to stone, unforgiving and harsh, judgmental and cruel. If he had recognized her, he did not show it. Javert's face was unchanged and unfazed. However, before she flicked her eyes downwards, she swore she saw the muscles in his jaw grow slack and his neck move with a surprised swallow.

"Everything alright, Chief Inspector?" his partner asked. Aimée glanced up and tried to see him in the gloom, but she couldn't see that well. Her chest was still heaving from her run, but her heart was starting to slow back down to its regular pace.

"Fine, Officer Hoight," Javert said, his eyes not leaving her. "I will take her back to the _Palais_ for questioning. You will continue your patrol. There were two of them."

"You don't need me for assistance?"

Javert grabbed her arm and turned back to the horse, tugging her along unceremoniously. "She is a woman. I am a police officer, I will be fine."

Aimée's eyes darkened. The tone in his voice angered her. This was obviously not the same Javert she had loved nine years ago.

_S_he watched Javert tie a rope from her shackles and loop it to his saddle. _He'll drag me like a criminal. Maybe he didn't recognize me after all. I'm a fool._

Aimée looked at the horse, not the same blue roan Ombre that he had all those years ago. This one was huge, black and its eyes were dull with obedience. Javert swung himself up into the saddle and put his heal into the horse's side, clucking his tongue as he did so. The horse took off at a walk back down the way they had come. As she walked along, tied to horse, she gave a glance at Hoight as she neared him. Aimée's nose wrinkled when she noticed how ugly he was.

They rode in silence. Aimée kept her eyes on his back, straight as an arrow in the saddle. His shoulders were as broad as ever. Aimée noticed that a wide hat sat strapped to a saddlebag, not on his head like it should be.

By the time they reached the gates of the _Palais de Justice,_ Aimée's feet were sore and her wrists raw from the rubbing shackles. Her arms had gone numb from the weight of the rifles followed by the rope pulling them as she tried to walk. Javert didn't speak to her when he dismounted and untied the rope from the shackles. Taking her arm again, his grip strong against the soft flesh of her arm, he pulled her to the doors of the _Palais. _The ornate hall inside was empty, and Aimée found herself craning herself to try and see as much décor as possible. The beauty inside surprised her, she had been expecting bare stone walls and cells everywhere.

Javert toted her down the hall and then to the right. A small brown door greeted them, frosted glass on the front etched with _Chief Inspector Javert_. He opened it, thrust her inside, followed, and then locked the door. The office was gloomy, only two lanterns lit. Piles of paper lined the walls, looking like pillars rising up from the wood floor. A desk sat in the center, neat and orderly, things lined up and perfect. Only one leather and wood chair sat in front of the desk and cabinets towered on either side.

"What the hell are you doing?" Javert demanded, approaching her, his eyes narrowed and fists clenched. Aimée was taken aback, stepping away from him until she felt the wood of the desk press against the back of her legs.

"That's no way to greet someone," Aimée spat, her own fire flaring against his. "Take these damn things off of me!" she demanded, "My wrists are raw."

Javert looked down at her shackles. "You're under arrest," he said coldly.

"For what!"

Javert was silent, looking at her grubby face, eyes raging in anger. His breath was nearly sucked away when memories crashed down on him, casting Javert into Aimée's ocean. An angry sigh escaped him and he approached her, taking the small key from his belt and undoing her wrist shackles. The skin beneath was red and raw, and Javert had to quickly look away.

"What were you doing, running through the alleyways dressed like….like this?" Javert asked, extending his hand to motion at her clothes while he turned and set the shackles on his desk.

Aimée bit her lip. She felt a lie growing inside her. She spoke before she could stop herself. "I was walking, I usually do it at night. I dress like this so men will leave me alone. I saw someone run and I thought they were a burglar, so I followed. When I heard your horses, I grew frightened, so I kept running."

Javert looked relieved and Aimée's heart clenched. She couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth, not after she had just found him. He was Chief Inspector Javert now, uncaring enforcer of the law. Javert would hate her, arrest her, if he knew the truth.

"You went for a walk."

Aimée swallowed. "Yes."

Aimée watched him shake his head and go to sit behind his desk. He leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. "Where is your father?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Dead. Years ago. Died of disease."

Javert exhaled loudly through his nose and drew his hands away. He looked at her and found it hard to believe that she was really there, standing in front of him, grubby in a man's clothes and dusty hair braided away from her face. When he first met her face in the alley, he felt his knees grow weak, but he was strong. He couldn't let Hoight know about his familiarity with the girl. The soft skin of her wrist beneath his hand sparked him like lightning and it took all of his strength not to sweep her into the saddle with him. When she was forced to walk behind the horse, it pained him like a jab in the side, but it had to be done.

"Tell me what happened in Montreuil?" he asked quietly, searching her face.

Aimée her bottom lip and closed her eyes. She hadn't thought about that in a long while, it had pained her too much, so she had managed to shove it away. "Gérard left for the factory, told me to pack. I went up to his office, I remember it smelled like lap oil, the room was soaked."

Javert watched as she settled down in the chair. He didn't stand, even when he heard her voice crack.

"I wrote you a note, put it in that little cedar chest. Then, a man showed up in a carriage, Thénardier." Javert felt a shot of anger as he thought of the rat's face in the square that day he stopped a fight. Aimée continued, "Gérard came back and he burned the house. I ran outside, hid the box, and then Gérard pulled me to the carriage. We went to the Thénardier's inn and I was forced to work for them."

Aimée looked at him, her eyes shining, but she was not going to cry. Javert noticed then how changed she was. Older, stronger, more independent. She had been alone without family for years, surviving and thriving in Paris.

"We came here and I saved up money for a flower shop. Been there ever since."

"How long has it been?" Javert asked, even though he knew full well how many years.

"Nine. Nine years."

They both sat in silence and they both noticed when it started to grow awkward.

"I've been out of Paris for two years," Javert said, trying to fill the silence, "Anti-smuggling campaign."

Aimée was painfully aware of the cruel irony of his words. He was an enforcer of the law, arresting smugglers and burning shipments, and she was a criminal, bringing illegal rifles to the revolution.

"You haven't changed much," Aimée said, looking over his face again.

Javert swallowed, hoping that her words were meant to be positive. The silence grew again.

Aimée bit her lip, feeling the pinpricks of hot tears behind her eyes. Years of lonliness and emotional strain began to build up inside her, pressing against her walls and making it hard to breath. She felt the room close around her. Aimée bent over and hid her face behind her hands as sobs started to wrack her body.

Javert quickly stood and neared the woman. He wanted to touch her, but was afraid.

"_Mademoiselle_ Lamenté?" he asked. The formality stung his mouth. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and knelt next to the chair. "…Aimée?"

The nearness of him made her look up. His face, once harsh and angry, seemed to melt before her eyes. His mouth was frowning, his downturned eyes worried. She sniffed and reached out, cautiously touching the side of his face, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard. Javert watched her, frozen as he knelt.

"I'm sad," she said, taking her hand away and wiping her eyes, realizing how stupid her words sounded. "I mean, I'm happy, I've found you, but I'm sad. I…I loved you…_love _you so much, even now, still. But it's not how it was…nine years passed…do we start all over? Do you still even care for me? It's been so long…everything's changed."

Javert sighed and looked down, his brows knit together. "Aimée…look at this," his voice was quit, but rough, almost as if he was hiding back tears of his own. She watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a spall satin square. He unfolded it gently and laid it in her lap. Then he stood and watched her.

"It's a handkerchief," Aimée murmured, running her fingers on the satin. She noticed the two stains, red and black. "…It was your handkerchief. At Beaudet's…then the funeral. You kept it…."

"Seventeen years I've kept that," Javert whispered. "And for these last nine not a day went by that I didn't think about you. Not a day went by where I didn't look for you." His voice rumbled around her and she closed her eyes, listening to it. It sounded like the greatest song.

Aimée sniffed and looked up at him, standing. He was taller than she remembered, stronger. "I'm sorry," she shook her head as more tears threatened her. "I'm sorry I let him take me away…I'm sorry I didn't run, I'm sorry…I'm sorry….." Her tears grew to hiccupping hysterics and Javert couldn't control himself any more. He stepped closer to her and wrapped her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could as he felt her sobs scream into the cloth of his coat. Clenching his own eyes shut, Javert felt tears streak his own cheeks. Her forehead pressed against the side of his chin and he kissed it, ignoring the grubbiness of her skin.

"Shh…do not be sorry."

Aimée's body slowly stopped shaking from the sobs.

"I missed you so much," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"And I you, Aimée," Javert said, looking to the heavens and thanking God above as he ran his hand down the back of her head and over her braid. "More than you know, _mademoiselle." _


	31. Chapter 31

_**Hey guys! Warning: Some adult themes in this chapter. Not that bad, but heavily implied. Also, sorry for the long wait for this chapter. It was very challenging for me to write...and i'm still not very pleased with it, but it was the best i could do. Regardless, hope you all enjoy!**_

XXXI: Break the Walls

Javert felt her searching hands trail up and press against his chest. He wondered if she could feel the small velvet box he carried on the inside of his coat…Javert rarely left home without it. Her fingertips swirled around his many buttons and he closed his eyes and sighed when she pulled away and held his face in her hands, her pinky fingers sliding below his jaw. Opening his eyes, he regarded her, ducking his head a little to see into her eyes.

He watched as she bit her lip. "You probably think I'm disgusting right now, dirty and wearing the clothes of a man," she gave him a smile. The corners of Javert's mouth curled upwards when the gold of her chuckle warmed his stomach. He shook his head and let her go, his arms falling to his sides as he neared his desk.

"No," he said, glancing up at her before he leaned over and shuffled some papers. "You look like you."

Aimée rolled her eyes, "Is that supposed to be a compliment or insult?"

"Observation," Javert said, folding up some papers in a leather portfolio and pushing in his chair. "You never looked comfortable in dresses…at least from what I remember."

Javert had never felt this comfortable around another human being. He noted how strange it was, not seeing her for so many years, and yet they still interacted as if it were only yesterday they had lost each other. However, he didn't dare kiss her or touch her…after all this time who knew how she had changed. Her words rang in his head, "_I love you so much, even now."_

He would try to be patient. Javert would try to wait.

Aimée watched him move about his office, so particular and neat. She reached back and drew her braid over her shoulder, fiddling with the tail as she bit the inside of her cheek. She was painfully aware of how attractive he was to her. Those shoulders, that strong jaw, those eyes…everything about him was perfect.

"Can I show you my shop?" Aimée blurted, nearing his desk and watching him.

He looked up, curious.

"I should really go back on patrol."

"Please?" she begged, even clasping her hands and bringing them up to her chin. She widened her eyes and acted like a begging puppy.

"Don't do that," Javert said, his brow furrowing. Still, his heart had melted.

The chin began to tremble and Javert groaned, rolling his eyes. Aimée just about burst out laughing seeing him act that way. She had missed him so much…she felt so happy.

"It would make me happy, Mattieu" she murmured, giving him one last look.

Javert's jaw set. "Fine."

She used his first name like a spell.

Aimée gave a squeal of excitement and beamed at him as he straightened his jacket and headed towards the door. Aimée shivered when his body moved past her. She followed him closely, catching a whiff of wood smoke, shoe polish, and musk. She gave a faint smile and slipped out the door behind him. When it was closed, Javert led her down the massive hallway.

"How far is it?" he asked when he saw his horse waiting at the bottom of the _Palais _steps, its head hung as it patiently waited for him. The courtyard and extending street was empty.

"About a mile and a half," Aimée said, moving past him and inspecting the huge Friesian. "Ombre's no longer your horse?"

Javert's eyes grew sad as he put a hand to the Friesian's black neck. "No…he grew too old."

"He was a good horse," Aimée said, remembering the blue roan's shining eyes and black mane.

"So is this one."

Aimée nodded. Javert came around and helped her on the horse's back. He pulled himself up behind her. Javert reached around her waist and grabbed hold of the reigns, steering the huge animal back out the gates. Aimée felt electrified as she felt the brush of his chest against her back and the warmth of his legs against hers.

At this point, Javert didn't care if another officer saw him with Aimée. He didn't care at all. All that mattered to him was the fact that he could be close to her again. Feel the warmth of her body on his arms when he reached around her to steer the horse. His breath hitched when he felt her lean in to him, the curve of her spine aligned with the row of buttons that extended down his jacket. She smelled faintly of flowers beneath the grubbiness of her.

"It's just this way," Aimée said after a while, pointing down a narrow street, the lamps casting a dull orange in the night. The horse plodded onwards. Javert felt a searching warm spread across the back of one of his hands. He let go of the reigns and spread his fingers. Aimée's slid between his with ease, as if it belonged there. Javert closed his eyes and brought his head forward, allowing him to press the side of his jaw to her temple. The smoothness of her skin against his face felt like the kiss of an angel.

"Right there," Aimée said, snapping him back to attention. She slid off the horse and Javert momentarily missed her warmth. He followed and tied up the horse on one of the posts outside the shop. He watched Aimée unlock the door. He couldn't see inside because the windows were blocked with curtains. However, it seemed larger than the store she had in Montreuil, with a second and third story above it.

The door chimed quietly when she opened it and slipped inside. Javert followed, a little stiff and uncomfortable. The idea of inappropriateness began to gnaw at his conscience when he assessed the situation. A beautiful young woman, alone with him in her shop, at night…in private….

"Are you coming?" Aimée asked, stabbing away his reservations when she poked her head out the door and looked at him quizzically.

He cleared his throat and nodded, striding inside with his hands clasped behind his back. The door closed behind him and Aimée turned the lock, the tumblers falling in place.

"Well…right," Aimée said, waving a hand through the air as she walked around. "This is my shop! Bigger than before…I have a flat up top," she exclaimed, pointing to the ceiling. "Want to see?"

Javert swallowed. "I'm not sure if that would be entirely appropriate, Aimée…"

She crossed her arms, not pleased with his words. "I'm not a child any more, Javert. Far from it. We're two adults. Who cares about appropriateness?"

_I do…_ Javert thought to himself.

"Please…it's been nine years…I want to show you my life."

Her words were quiet, soft, and pleading. Javert's eyes fell on hers and all of his self-control was lost in her eyes. He was beginning to realize that Aimée had complete power over him she didn't realize. It would've usually bothered Javert, powerlessness wasn't something he was too fond of. However, when he looked at her, even when her face was splotched with grubbiness, he decided he didn't mind.

"Alright," he finally said.

Aimée smiled at him and took his hand in hers, leading him to the stairs. They climbed in silence, their fingers entwined. Upstairs, Javert found himself in a neat little hallway. She had kept it lit in her absence, the lanterns glowing yellow-orange in the darkness.

"This is the kitchen," Aimée explained, tugging him into the room directly to their left. It was large enough, with a hearth for cooking and baking, wash basin, counter, and table. "Only bad thing is that I have to get my water from downstairs, but I manage alright," Aimée said, shrugging as they moved on.

Next was the study, her own little desk with papers and finances for her shop, then after that, the hall opened up into a large living room. A sofa and two armchairs sat in front of a fireplace with a red and gold Persian rug lying on the floorboards. Two book shelves stood flanking the fireplace and the wall in front of them housed three large windows, their cream-colored curtains drawn over the glass. She led him to the back corner of the living room where the foot of another staircase climbed upwards.

"And up here are the bedrooms," Aimée said, proud of the home she owned. "This is my room." The door opened to reveal a large bed with cream and gold bed covers. Another rug sat at the foot of the bed and paintings lined the walls. Most of them were landscapes, mountains, fall forests ablaze in reds and yellows, and the crashing ocean. She had more books in her room and lamps lining the walls.

"There's food in the kitchen," Aimée said turning to Javert, "Please, help yourself…but excuse me a moment while I change and clean up a bit."

Javert gave her a nod and turned to the door.

"Javert, wait," Aimée called after him. He froze and turned to face her. She was biting her lip, "You won't leave, will you?"

"No, _mademoiselle."_

Her smile shined when he turned and headed back to the second story.

Javert was sitting quietly in the kitchen when she found him. She was laced up in a plain gray day dress and her hair was unbraided and damp over her shoulder, the water from her locks turning the fabric dark. Her face was clean, free of dirt and dust, glowing in the gloominess of her house. Aimée hid behind the wall for a moment, watching Javert sit at her table. He hadn't helped himself to the bread that was sitting on her counter, but instead just sat and waited patiently for her to return. Aimée enjoyed looking at him sit in her very own kitchen.

"You weren't hungry?" she finally asked, coming from her hiding place.

Javert turned and looked when he heard her voice. His jaw slackened when he saw her, glowing from her wash, even more beautiful than he ever could've imagined.

"What?" Aimée asked, noticing the way he had stared.

"Nothing," Javert quickly said, blinking away, embarrassed.

Aimée smiled, "Remember when we were at my house in Montreuil and we shared bread?" she asked, going to the loaf and bringing it to the table.

"Yes."

"You told me your name _and _your age then," Aimée said, giving him a mischievous smile as she ripped the loaf in half. She propped her chin on her hand and looked at him, biting out of her piece. "Mattieu Javert."

His face was stone, "That's right."

"Come on, why so somber?" Aimée asked, standing up giving him a look.

"I'm not being somber," Javert countered.

Aimée huffed and ripped off a piece of bread, "Here, eat something." She held it up to his mouth. Her nearness smelled of lilacs and vanilla, and it made Javert's head spin.

"I'm not hungry," he said, holding up his hands apologetically.

"Come on, if I keep this any longer it'll stale," Aimée insisted, "Just open your mouth."

"You aren't going to feed me like a child, Aimée."

She raised her eyebrows, but her hand didn't stop hovering in front of his mouth. Finally, he huffed and his brows furrowed together, but he opened his mouth. Aimée popped the bread inside and gave a laugh.

"That wasn't worth all the fuss," she laughed, bringing a hand to her mouth. Javert couldn't help but smile and chuckle as well. They both started laughing, loudly and strongly, their faces growing rosy from mirth. Javert felt so light, so happy. Laughter flowed around them like a warm curtain, wrapping them in the joy of reunion.

Before he knew what was happening, Javert was silenced when Aimée boldly leaned forward and pressed her lips to his without warning. He was surprised at first, but when the heat of her kiss melted through his lips, he stood, his eyes fluttering closed and his hand reaching up to cradle her face. She looped her arms around his waist, her small hands splayed against his sides. She tasted like honey and mint and fresh baked bread. Nine years of craving her flared up inside him and Javert grew bolder than he would've normally dared. He reached away from her face and her arms looped around his neck in response. As easily as lifting a babe, Javert lifted her and his head spun when he felt her legs loop around him, supporting herself up.

Javert sat Aimée down on the counter and she sat taller than him. He lifted his head to her intoxicating mouth and he felt her shiver when he traced his tongue along her bottom lip. Their mouths opened to each other and Aimée brought her hands to his face and trailed her fingers over his skin and into his short, peppered hair. Javert reached down and laid a large hand along the outside of her thigh, felling the strength of it beneath the skirts of her dress. She laughed against his lips and he smiled in return, letting his harsh, disciplined mine escape in the loving, comfortable feeling of want.

When Aimée broke away for air, she sighed when she felt Javert press a kiss to her neck, the bristles of his beard making her shiver. Closing her eyes, she brought a hand to the back of his head. A little sound escaped the back of her throat and Javert rumbled beneath her. She was so happy, so very happy. Javert slowed his advances, his lips pressing slowly to her skin. She felt his fingertips glide across the skin of her shoulders and the smoothness of her collarbone.

"Aimée," he said, the warm puff of his breath hot against her skin. "I never told you how I felt before you left."

He drew away from her and she gave a disappointed look to him. She looked down at his face, flushed from lust, his eyes glinting when he looked at her. He lifted his hand and graced the side of her face, running it over her skin and down her neck. Javert's eyes darted around her face, looking at her as if she was a piece of art. A guarded statue that he alone was permitted to touch. He pulled her to him and gave her a short kiss on the lips before he dug into his pocket.

Aimée's heart froze when she saw a little velvet box in his hand.

He looked at her, and his breath almost left him when she saw how perfect she was. Young, beautiful, and full of life. Eyes stormed like the ocean and her lips were slack from shock. Javert had to clear his throat before he could speak again.

"Aimée…when you stopped me in Toulon, your face muddy and flowers drooping in your hand, I knew my life had changed," Javert confessed, looking down and holding the box with both hands, as if it was a great, heavy package. "I saw you at that water fountain, crying and alone."

Aimée felt tears well up in her eyes when Javert started to speak of every meeting they had shared. He had remembered everything…everything that was said, everything that they had done.

"After Anton attacked you, I knew I would not be able to rest easily unless I knew you were safe. I was so angry when I saw what he did to you. I vowed to keep you safe then, as safe as I could."

He sniffed and Aimée realized that this was challenging for him to say. He had been closed off for so many years…guarded by the law and the attitude that it demanded from him. She reached out and cradled his face, willing him to go on.

"At Beaudet's parties…you were so beautiful. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that a woman, so young and perfect, would even bother to give me the time of day…but you, you gave me so much more."

Javert looked up at her and enclosed her hand in his. "The world has been cruel to the both of us, Aimée Lamenté. But, by the grace of God, we found each other." Javert opened the little velvet box and Aimée couldn't breathe when she saw the dark blue sapphire and diamond ring.

"Oh my god," she managed.

Javert gave her a timid smile that made her heart melt. "Aimée…even though I'm old and gray, harsh and boring will you make me happy? Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, leaping of the counter and slamming into his arms. They almost tumbled over, but Javert was strong as he held her up, burying his face in her hair. She felt him laugh, his chest rumbling against hers and happy tears burned in her eyes. Aimée broke away and kissed him, smiling against his lips. When they broke away, he slid the ring onto her finger. Then, he took her hand and kissed it, looking up at her.

"I won't ever leave you again," he vowed, his voice a deep murmur. He reached forward and wiped away the gentle tears with his thumb. "I love you, Aimée Lamenté."

She sniffed, smiled, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I love you too, Mathieu Javert." Aimée allowed him to lean into her and she fluttered her eyes shut when he kissed her gently. Javert's lips moved slowly against hers, reveling in the moment and allowing himself to be swept away.

Aimée felt Javert advance and she let him lead her. The edge of the counter pressed against her lower back and she gave a sly smile against his lips. Aimée broke away from him and stopped for a breath. Javert watched her, panting slightly, his nose brushing against hers. Aimée leaned over and kissed his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard and decided she liked the way it tickled her nose. She felt Javert lift his head and swallow, the Adam's apple in his neck bobbing. Biting her lip, Aimée grew bold as she reached out to try and undo the button of his stiff, high collar. Javert cocked his head to the side, slightly amused as he watched her fiddle with the collar. He lifted his hands and enclosed them around hers, pulling her away.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," he murmured, running her thumbs along her knuckles.

Her brow furrowed and she frowned at him. "You're my fiancé now," she said bluntly, slipping her hand away from his and reaching back to undo the collar. "Trust me."

It seemed to Javert that Aimée's smile was anything but trustworthy and he grew nervous when the collar opened. However, he felt himself sigh and his eyes closed when her fingers timidly searched over his skin, leaving little dots of heat with every caress. She placed a peck on his lips and began undoing the rest of the buttons of his jacket. Javert felt his hands start to shake nervously and he stared at the ring that hugged her finger to try and calm himself. He shrugged out of his coat and watched as Aimée tossed it on the table.

She looked at him, clad in a thin undershirt of spun cotton. It didn't cling to his body tightly, but instead hung from his form before it was tucked into his trousers. Aimée watched his chest rise and fall and she felt his hands softly rise to rest on her waist. Not able to stop herself, Aimée pressed her hands to his chest, the muscles hard beneath her palm. The thump of Javert's heart pounded against her fingers and Aimée stepped nearer when Javert pulled her gently from her waist.

Aimée's voice shook when she spoke to him. "Will you…will you come upstairs?" She was just as nervous as he was. She was a grown woman in her thirties, she was full aware of what happened in upstairs bedrooms at night, even participated once or twice, but this was different. Her heart was invested… she was with a man she loved with every fiber of her being.

Aimée shivered when Javert ran his hand over her hair, taking a strand and fiddling with it. Her words had shocked him, but he couldn't deny the heat that seared deep inside his body when her hands spread along his chest. Her wide blue eyes stared in to his and, throwing caution to the wind, he scooped her up and held her as if she weighed nothing at all. Aimée's body curled against his chest and she leaned up to kiss him as he moved out of the kitchen and into the hall.

Javert found her room easily enough…even half blinded by Aimée's kisses, he had remembered the layout of the house. Her arms looped around his neck when he closed the door behind him and walked forward until the soft edge of her bed pressed against his legs. Javert gently laid her down, his hands still trembling slightly. He was worried he would hurt her, worried that she would break at the smallest touch.

"Aimée…are you sure-" he began, but his words were cut short when she placed her hands on his face, one thumb gracing over his cheek and the other moving over the softness of his lips.

Aimée stood and Javert backed away from the bed, his eyes searching her face, brows furrowed as if he was analyzing something he didn't understand. He looked so lost to Aimée, and that made her love him even more. She moved her hands to his waist and gently took hold of the fabric of his shirt. Pulling slightly, the cotton became un-tucked and Aimée gently pulled upwards. Javert took it from her and pulled it off, letting it drop to the floor.

She knew Javert was strong, she could remember how solid his body was underneath the coat whenever she was close to him. Still…she was surprised when she looked at the muscles of his body, the dusting of hair across his upper chest, the curved strength of his shoulders. Aimée took hold of his upper arms and gently turned so the bed pressed against the back of Javert's legs. He sat, his eyes never leaving her face when Aimée trailed her fingers over his bare shoulders. Javert's pale-green eyes were still questioning and Aimée smiled at him.

"Don't worry…I'm sure…."


	32. Chapter 32

_**Hey guys! Ok, about to address the white elephant in the room. I would've loved, LOVED to write about what happened once the last chapter dropped off, but, i fear, i'm not comfortable enough in my ability to do that scene justice. Here, it's heavily implied, i did my best, but this story is so important to me i didn't want to ruin it with a scene poorly written or tasteless. So, please, forgive me, i'm so sorry, but here are some heavy implications. Also, things are starting to heat up, rebellion! Once again, thank you all SO SO SO VERY MUCH for reading! I'm overjoyed whenever i get a review notification in my email and i hope you all enjoy!**_

XXXII: The Prayers of Duty

The mattress held him suspended in a soft, enveloping comfort and the ceiling hung above him, a blank canvas of cream-colored paint. Javert's arm was brought back to support the back of his head and his other hand rested on his chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his lungs and the slowed thumping of his heart. The room felt small to him, enclosed and cozy. The soft breathing next to him in the darkness reminded him he was not alone. Turning his head to the side, Javert looked at Aimée Lamenté, curled up on her side, her hair splayed down her back and in her face like tangled gold. Her cheeks were flushed and lips rosy as they gently parted with each sigh of breath. The thin fabric of his own undershirt sat loosely around her small form and Javert couldn't help but look over the soft curve of her breasts beneath the cloth. He swallowed, the vividness of what they had just done still flashing behind his eyes. Even as he lay on the bed, in the wake of passion and lust, his chest constricted with every breath. He could still feel her body pressed against his, her smooth skin burning wherever it touched him. Aimée was incredible to him, a goddess with so much power it shocked him at first, but he had soon found himself instinctively holding on to her, kissing her, and running his hands over her perfect form. When Javert had first touched her in just the right way and was rewarded with a faint gasp that puffed against his skin, he was completely engrossed in her, lost to the world.

Javert watched as a strand of hair fell into her face and she wrinkled her nose and swatted at it in her sleep when it tickled her skin. He remembered the warm puff of her breath on the skin of his neck and he closed his eyes. When he sighed, his mouth was curled up in a contented smile.

Javert turned his head back to gaze at Aimée's ceiling and his smile fell away. His mind started to reel about the situation he had found himself in. He was supposed to be on patrol, but instead he was sharing the bed of his new fiancé. What was he going to do? Rebellion was on its way, he was not naive, he knew that a conflict was inevitable. How could he keep her safe? How could he keep _himself_ safe? Getting harmed or killed was not an option for him. Before, Javert had put little consideration into his own life in the face of the law, but now…with Aimée…he found something to fight for.

A small murmuring noise caught Javert's attention. He turned his head and watched as Aimée's blue eyes cracked open in the gloominess. She sat up, the large shirt covering her knees, and rubbed her eyes like a child. Tossing the wild hair out of her eyes, Aimée looked at him sleepily.

"You're still up?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Just…thinking," Javert said, swallowing and watching her fiddle with the cuffs of his shirt. Javert pulled himself upwards into almost a sitting position, his trousers loose on his hips. He had pulled them on when Aimée had finally fallen asleep in his shirt. He realized that seeing her in his simple white cotton stirred more of a reaction than the fanciest of gowns. The neckline hung loose about her, exposing the skin of a shoulder and the shadowing of the dip between her bust made him blink.

Aimée huffed and looked him over sleepily. With a little yawn, she climbed on top of him, straddling his waist, her strong legs on either side of his body. Javert couldn't help but smile at her as she reached back and pushed her wavy hair out of her face and bit her lip. She leaned over, bracing her hands against his bare chest, and gave him a soft, lingering kiss. Aimée felt the butterflies rise in her chest when she felt his fingertips stroke softly over the skin of her legs. She pulled away and searched Javert's face.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

Javert glanced at his fingertips as they traced little circles and patterns over Aimée's skin. He sighed. "There's rebellion in Paris, I'm sure you've heard of it…tensions are getting high."

Aimée swallowed, her secret growing in her throat and making it hard to breathe. She wanted to tell him the truth…that she was responsible for smuggling arms into the city, but the words refused to be said.

"I just want you safe, Aimée," Javert murmured earnestly, placing his hands flat against her thighs and looking up into her ocean.

Aimée nodded and traced the lines of the muscles in his chest with a finger. "I know."

Javert brought his hands to her face and claimed her mouth in another kiss. When his tongue traced along her soft bottom lip, Aimée opened her mouth to welcome him. Javert sat up fully, Aimée sitting in his lap. Moving his hands away from her face, he reached them around and slowly ran them up underneath the fabric of the shirt, the smooth expanse of her back bare against his fingertips. A little moan escaped her lips and Javert felt her smile though the kiss. Bracing her in his arms, Javert flipped her down on the bed, bracing himself over her with one arm as the other slid down her side and rested at her hip, the hem of the cotton shirt tickling the back of his hand. Shivers ran down his spine, following the gentle, trailing scratches of Aimée's nails.

Javert's head began spinning again, spinning with the obsession of keeping her safe, of keeping her far away from the stirring rebellion of the people of Paris. He broke away and watched her, his breathing heavy. Aimée's body was arched slightly into him. Her eyes were questioning and Javert sighed, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, her nose, her cheek, and finally her chin. Then, Javert turned on his back and pulled her over to him, wrapping her tightly in his arms and holding her close against his body. Aimée rested her head on his chest and felt the light dusting of hair against her chin.

"You're scared, aren't you, Javert?" she asked, swirling her fingertips along his skin as she listened to the thumping of his heart, as low and thudding as a drum. The truth of her job solidified inside her, sitting like a lump of coal in her gut.

"It would be a lie to say I wasn't," Javert murmured, his fingers trailing through her hair.

"Well…there's nothing we can do about it now…" Aimée observed, pressing herself closer to him, nuzzling up underneath his jaw. "So, let's get some sleep."

"Yes, _mademoiselle,"_ Javert smiled, letting his arm slip from her hair to wrap lazily around her.

* * *

"Where were you last night?" Hoight asked, staring at Javert as the two officers made their way across the bridge. "Sir? Sir!"

Javert snapped back to attention , turning to look at Hoight, his jaw set and mouth downturned in his signature stony frown. "What?"

"I was inquiring as to where you were last night, Inspector, you never returned to your patrol."

"I was filing paperwork," Javert lied flawlessly. He had a reputation for meticulous files, so his fib was very believable, especially to a man like Hoight.

The late afternoon sun shone down lazily on the two police officers, and Javert felt the black wool of his jacket press around him uncomfortably. He could feel the dampness under the brim of his hat. The stiff collar dug into the skin under his chin and he often sighed, trying to breathe out the heat of the day. The river below sludged by lazily in its cement banks, the cloudy waters wafting up unpleasantly beneath them.

No matter how hard Javert tried to focus on his daily patrol, his mind was elsewhere, back in Aimée's home, back in her bed….

"What did you do with that street rat you found last night?" Hoight asked, coughing and spitting from his saddle.

Javert's brow creased in anger and he glared at Hoight with a growing distaste. _Street rat?_ Unbeknownst to Hoight, his words were poorly chosen…_very_ poorly chosen. However, Hoight was stupidly staring straight ahead, completely oblivious to the way his commanding officer was watching him.

"She was questioned, then let go when she had no information."

Hoight grunted and nodded, checking a back molar with the tip of his tongue and spitting again. "It seems to me that we spend more time going to the _Palais de Justice_ than actually patrolling the streets."

Javert scowled, "We were summoned. If reporting back to your command post doesn't suit you, Officer Hoight, feel free to seek other forms of employment."

Hoight actually looked at Javert then, his broken nose crooked and squashed against his face. His eyes were narrowed and Javert picked up on the annoyance in his face. Pulling his horse to a stop, Javert regarded his partner.

"Is there something else you wanted to say, Officer Hoight?"

The two men sized each other up, Hoight sitting as high as he could in his saddle, yet Javert was still a head taller and the look in his eyes demanded obedience. Hoight lasted a full twenty seconds or so before he crumbled. "No sir, sorry, sir," he muttered, casting his eyes downward and waiting until his commanding officer rode on in front of him. People stepped aside, their heads down when the two men passed. The looming form of the _Palais_ towered familiarly ahead of them, the sun glinting off its ornate architecture.

Two men opened the gate for them and took the horses when Javert and Hoight dismounted. Javert moved the muscles of his neck, trying to loosen the stiff collar, before he climbed the steps. He was unconcerned if Hoight followed or not.

A clerk took them to Chief Justice Legrande.

"You asked to see me, sir?" Javert said, standing in front of the raised pulpit in an empty courtroom, his hat removed and tucked beneath his arm. He had just straightened from his bow and looked up to see the tough, gaunt man look up from some papers. Legrande leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands to his chest, two ruby and gold rings glinting on his fingers.

"Yes, Chief Inspector." The Chief Justice failed to notice Hoight standing slightly behind Javert. Legrande pursed his lips momentarily, looking as if he had eaten something sour. "I'm cutting straight to the point, Inspector. General Lamarque is dead."

Javert was silent.

"This means, Inspector, that the people are going to riot." Legrande sniffed and stood, the sunlight that streamed through the window bleaching his muttonchops even more, and his skin looked white. "I want you to go in."

"In, sir?"

"Yes. Undercover, in disguise."

Javert felt the air in his throat catch. "Sir, that-"

"I do hope you are not refusing this order, Javert," Legrande said, standing in front of the inspector and clasping his bony hands in front of him.

Deep inside, Javert felt anger start to bubble. He was unused to being talked to in this way, and it irked him that Hoight was there to witness it.

"No, sir, I was not refusing. I just feel that someone else would be better for the task."

Legrande gave an unpleasant little smile and turned away from him, stepping slowly around the room, taking great notice to the ornate filigree of the ceiling. "And why would this be?"

Javert swallowed, but before he could speak, Legrande turned back to him, about ten feet away, his back near the base of the pulpit. "Is it because you are a commanding officer, Javert? Do you think yourself too valuable to Paris to go into the dangerous places your duty commands you to go?" Hoight sniffed and shifted his weight. Legrande ignored him and took a measured step closer, well-rehearsed and unpleasant. His black robes hung about him like falling ink.

"True, you are a very important man to this city, Chief Inspector. And that is why we need you. The most training. You've been two years out of this city, out on your crusade against the smugglers, you know their ways better than anyone here."

Legrande's twisted praise sat like ice in Javert's gut. His eyes narrowed and he couldn't help but clench his fists. "I am recognized in this city, Your Honor."

"Then pick a good disguise, Javert. I would suggest a hat," Legrande remarked, cocking his head to the side and watching Javert with glinting onyx eyes. "Maybe a shave."

Muscles tightened in Javert's jaw and he thought back to the first time he had met with Legrande, down in the stinking dungeons below their feet. He couldn't throw himself into the depths of rebellion like that, couldn't thrust himself deep into the lion's den without the means of support. If anything were to happen to him…. The image of Aimée sitting alone in the darkness, waiting for his return, pulled at his heart, clawed at it like an attacking dog.

Legrande neared him, silent as death across the marble floor. He smelled of the dank underground when he met Javert's pale green eyes. "You will not refuse this, Inspector. Do I make myself clear?"

The harsh command of duty crippled Javert's resistance. "Yes, sir."

A smile spread across Legrande's thin, pale lips. "Are you a religious man, Javert?"

It was hard for Javert to stand still with this man so near him. Nevertheless, he nodded slowly. "Yes, I am a man of God."

Legrande nodded and glanced at Hoight. "If you are so concerned about your personal safety, I suggest you pray. A little faith never hurt anybody. Lamarque's funeral will be tomorrow at noon, I expect you to report here tomorrow morning before you are placed undercover. Understood?"

Javert gave a curt bow, his eyes glaring into the marble beneath his feet. He turned on his heel and strode out the room, throwing the doors open with more force than what was required. Hoight stayed behind with Legrande. The thump of his boots down the ornate hall pounded along with the pulse that roared in his ears. He thought about going to his office, but was worried what he might do to his papers and files in his anger.

The black Frisian was waiting for him patiently, the reigns tied to a bar near the guard's post. Untying the horse and pulling himself into the saddle, Javert sat impatiently while the guards opened the gate. Kicking his horse into a swift gallop, Javert charged his way out of the courtyard of the _Palais de Justice. _

People heard the clack of his hooves and hurried out of the way, watching him in the wake of his hurry. In about ten minutes time, Javert slowed the Frisian in front of the towering spires of Notre Dame. Tying up the horse, he stored the wide hat in a saddlebag and climbed the steps of the church. Pigeons fluttered overhead, cooing at each other when they looked for a place on the massive church to roost. The massive thick doors were propped open and the stifling air inside was allowed to escape outside. Javert passed through the doorway with his head bowed, feeling God's heavy scrutiny on his shoulders.

Inside, the extremely high vaulted ceiling made even the quietest of footsteps resound though the church. The sunlight passed through the massive stained glass masterpiece that hung above the heads of bowed sinners, washing everyone in shattered red, blue, and gold. Even in the daytime, the priests kept the fat, waxy candles lit on heavy gold candelabras. Two priests were making their way around the patron saints, a thurible swinging on a chain in front of the first. Latin chants left their lips silently and the masking scent of incense curled around them.

Javert neared the front of the church. The massive circle of elaborate stained glass felt like the giant, all-seeing eye of God, watching over His children. Over the years, God had become an uncomfortable being to the Inspector. Javert did not doubt His existence, but he had grown to fear Him rather than worship. God's actions had not been kind over the years…in fact they had been quite cruel.

Pushing back his discomfort, Javert craned his head back as he gazed up at the perfect detail of the Rose Window, hoping that someone would hear the prayer he was about to speak. Javert knelt in the gaping center of Notre Dame, not caring who saw him or what people would say. Crossing himself and casting his eyes upwards, Javert began to pray.

_Please help me keep her safe. Help me protect her. Help me keep her happy, Lord, to do that I must live. You have taken her from me too many times, Lord. Taken her away and have forced me to find her once more. Was it a test? Have proven myself? Let me stay safe in this mission…I have someone to live for now. Do not let me leave her again, Lord. I pray to You and St. Michael the Archangel…let him watch over me, let him help me protect this city and the woman I love, against the evils of rebellion and anarchy. Heavenly Father, I ask that You watch over me, guide me to safety, let me come back to her._

The chants of the priests grew louder and Javert bowed his head, crossing himself before he rose again. The church rose above him, a gaping cavern of religious power and obedience. Javert turned, feeling the giant stained glass window staring into his back.


	33. Chapter 33

_**Hey guys! Another chapter for you all! Your support means so much to me and it makes me so happy that all of this grew to what it is today, glad you enjoy!**_

XXXIII: Preparation

Aimée puffed the hair out her face and wiped her nose, which tickled from the dust. The plumed feather-duster in her hand pushed the dirt from the shelves and counter of her shop, the tiny particles dancing like shining snowflakes in the late afternoon sun. Business had been slow, so Aimée had decided to do some cleaning. She never enjoyed it, but it was something to do. She was sweeping the back room when she heard the opening of the front door. Peeking her head around the threshold, she smiled when she saw Javert standing in the doorway. He looked around awkwardly, his back straight as a board. His big, black horse was tied up outside.

"Hi," she said, walking over and smiling at him. She wanted to reach out and touch his face or wrap her arms around him in a hug, but the look on the man's face made her pause. "What's wrong?" Aimée asked, wiping her hands on the front of her dress and setting the broom against the wall.

Javert looked at her, his downturned eyes shining with worry. "I can't stay for long, _mademoiselle." _

"Is everything alright, Javert?"

She watched as he swallowed, glancing around before he turned and locked the door. The shades were drawn and he approached her, gently taking her arm and leading her to the couch that sat in front of the fireplace.

"Please sit," Javert instructed, extending a hand and watching as Aimée sat down slowly on the cushion. Her eyes were concerned as she watched him. Feeling the need to keep moving, Javert started to pace.

"Javert, I don't want to ask again. What's going on?"

"General Lamarque is dead."

"So?"

"He was very popular with the people, they rallied for him," Javert glanced at Aimée and hurried to sit next to her, taking her slender hands up in his rough, calloused ones. She looked down and noticed for the first time how the skin of his left hand was scarred lightly. She ran her fingers over the patch of scarred tissue and looked up into his eyes when he spoke again. "I have no doubt that revolution is going to break, Aimée. It's about to start."

Aimée had known, of course, but she hid it well. Éponine had stopped by earlier that day to share the news and to check in on her. The young boys had received the rifles without trouble and Aimée had a thick envelope of francs hidden under a shelf in the back room. The amount of concern and worry in Javert's face made her want to cry, to confess to him, tell him her secret life, but she couldn't do that. Couldn't risk losing him again.

The sapphire ring felt hot against the skin of her finger.

"What will you do?" she asked, pushing the thoughts away and glancing over Javert's anxious face.

Javert looked away and Aimée watched as he bit the inside of his cheek. She was unaware as he wrestled with his own secrets. Could he tell her what he was about to do? Tell her about his orders to go undercover in the lion's den?

"I…I've been assigned."

Aimée pulled her hands away from his as she stood, looking down at him with roiling ocean eyes. "Where? Where are you assigned?"

Javert shook his head and wiped a hand along his face. "That's not important," he said, looking at his feet.

"What do you mean? Of course it's important!" Aimée fired back.

Javert didn't look up at her.

"Tell me." She waited as he sighed and she watched as his shoulders slumped. He looked so unlike the Javert she knew. He was ragged…he looked scared. "Javert…."

"The Chief Justice has ordered me to go undercover. To the barricades, should the young men decide to build one. Wherever their base will be."

Aimée felt he throat constrict. She saw the pistols and bayonets laid out and glinting at the table in the ABC Café. She pictured the rifles piled and stacked in cupboards. Men hunched over making bullets and measuring gunpowder, chanting revolution like crazed boys.

"No. You can't."

"I've been ordered to."

"I don't care!" she screamed, her own fear gnawing at her self-control. "You could get killed!"

Javert looked up at her and saw with painful clarity how her eyes shined. "Aimée, I was commanded to do so. It's my duty."

He had chosen the wrong words.

"Your duty? They use you like a pig to slaughter so you can get what? The falsified peace-of mind that you did your _duty_? Why do you owe them your life, Javert?"

"I will be in a disguise, Aimée."

"What? A hat? A scarf? A big coat? You think that could work? None of those things can stop a bullet."

Javert's eyes pleaded with her. He was angry at himself, he should've stayed quiet. The news had upset her, made her worry when she didn't deserve to. Javert rose slowly but nearly stumbled when he watched her back away from him, a stormy fire still brewing in her dark eyes.

"You can't do it," Aimée stated, shaking her head and crossing her arms. She knew her words held no authority, would change nothing, yet she felt the urge to declare it to herself. "I won't let you."

"Then I will be arrested for treason," Javert said, feeling the cloth of his trousers brush against his palms.

"So? I'll shoot that Chief Justice and be put in prison too. Then we'd be safe together."

"You'd hang," Javert stated.

Aimée frowned and looked up at him. Javert's heart panged when he saw the child from Toulon in her face, in her smooth cheekbones and straight little nose, in her dusty blonde hair and slender neck. She looked so young to him still, so full of life and so wanting.

"Let's leave Paris then," she said, approaching him hopefully. "Tonight. I can pack quickly, I don't have many things, we can-"

"Aimée, we can't leave. I can't abandon the law. I am not a deserter, nor am I a coward."

He saw the tears brim up in her eyes and wished that what she had suggested was possible. Wished with all of his heart, with everything he had. If he could, Mattieu Javert would have swept her up in his arms and carried her to the nearest town, just to be together, just to be happy.  
"I just…I don't want to lose you again," Aimée sniffed, wiping her eyes and her voice a cracked little whisper. "I can't."

Javert stepped towards her, his arms extended, "Come here," he murmured. Aimée looked like a frightened child, rooted to the spot. Javert sighed and his voice grew quiet and low, smooth as the silk that lined her dress. "_Chérie…."_

Aimée found herself stepping to him and allowing herself to be wrapped up in the strong warmth of his arms. She felt the warm air of his sigh blow across her forehead. The hot pinpricks of tears stung at her eyes and she tried to sniff them back, but soon they were dampening the cloth of Javert's coat. She felt him rub the tense muscles of her back gently.

"What happened to your hand?" she murmured after a little while.

"Hmm?"

"Your hand. It looks scarred."

Javert was quiet for a moment and Aimée almost thought that he wouldn't answer her. But then, as he twirled his fingers through her hair, he spoke. "That night, the night of the fires back in Montreuil, I ran inside to try and find you. My hand was burned."

"You went into a burning house for me?"

"Yes, _mademoiselle,_"

Aimée's arms tightened around Javert's strong chest and she clung to him.

"I cannot stay the night," Javert said quietly after some time. Aimée smelled his musk and shoe polish and wood smoke and closed her eyes. "But I need you to promise me something. Promise me that you will stay inside the house tomorrow. Don't leave. Stay here, upstairs, lock the doors if you must, stay away from windows. I don't want you getting hurt."

Aimée found herself nodding before she could stop herself. She knew it was a lie.

To try and ignore her conscience, she spoke into the buttons of his coat. "Promise me you'll be safe…promise that you'll return to me, Mattieu."

Pressing his lips to her forehead, he murmured, "I promise."

Aimée pulled away from his embrace and tilted her head upwards. Their kiss was chaste, more of a statement of love than a flurry of passion or lust. Javert's arms ached when he let them slip from her once they drew away from each other. He wanted to stay…wanted to just stay and look at her, watch her beauty and bask in the warmth of her love, but he needed to go. Needed to plan with his men.

"I love you," she called to him as he turned to open the door. "More than anything on this earth."

Javert felt his throat constrict and at first, he struggled to speak. "I love you too, _Chérie," _Javert finally said, giving her a bow before unlocking the door and stepping back out into the street.

Aimée watched the empty doorway for a while, her fingers running over the little bump of the sapphire ring. Then, she quickly turned to the back room, grabbed a shawl, and slipped out the back door.

"We can't discuss our plans with you," a boy with mussed dark hair said, his eyes narrowing.

Aimée glared right back. "I've supplied the weapons, I think I deserve to know how and when they're being used, Grantaire."

"Enjolras, back me on this," Grantaire said, turning and looking pleadingly at the leader.

Enjolras regarded her behind his dirty blonde locks, his face gaunt and older than his years. "I have trouble trying to figure out why you're so curious now, Aimée. Before, you made it clear that all you wanted to do was supply us. You said you were loyal to the money, not the cause."

"I see now how the people are affected. I want to help."

"I believe her," the rich boy with the sing-song voice ventured. His name was Marius, if she remembered correctly. "Why should we turn her away?"

"She's not one of us," Grantaire growled, shooting Marius a dirty look.

"Neither am I," Marius offered, holding his hands up in a shrug. "My family's rich, yet here I stand, helping all of you for a better, brighter future."

Grantaire took a swig from his bottle and leaned back in his chair. "You are too trusting, dear Marius. And your head, light with the passing fancies of love."

Aimée ignored the teasing and met Enjolras's gaze. "If you don't trust me, then ask Éponine. I helped her grow when she was a child and I watch out for her now. Can't you trust her?"

Enjolras sighed and blinked. "I can't tell you everything, Aimée, I'm sure that you can try to understand my reservations. But, I can tell you that, if you _really_ want to be a part of the cause, go to Lamarque's funeral procession tomorrow. It'll be at noon."

"That's it? That's all you're going to tell me?"

"I can't go and tell our plans to everyone, Aimée, even to smugglers. Just trust me. The funeral. Tomorrow. At noon," Enjolras nodded to her in a way that told her the conversation had ended. She frowned and stood, towering over the seated schoolboys, their pistols lying on the tables like the toys of children. Too frustrated for words, Aimée turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Below, the café rumbled in a murmuring din of men and women as they drank and talked. She wove her way through the crowd. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard a small voice call for her.

"Aimée, wait!"

She turned just in time to see Gavroche push his way through a couple of patrons, a ruffled badge pinned to the corner of his grubby jacket. Once he reached her, he looked around nervously, wringing his hands and biting his lip.

"I can tell you what they're going to do, but not here. Can we go back to your shop?"

Aimée nodded and extended her hand to the boy. He took it and they stepped out of the ABC Café and into the street. People moved around them, the sunlight low in the sky but still casting a warmth on their skin. Gavroche caught sight of a group of boys scampering across the road ahead of them and he quickly pulled his hand away from Aimée's, puffing out his little chest as he did so. Aimée smiled, noting that the boy's pride was bigger than he was.

Back at the shop, Gavroche seated himself up on a stool behind the counter and Aimée went upstairs to retrieve a glass of milk and a plate of sweets. She watched as he gobbled down the treats and chugged at the glass of milk, white clinging to his upper lip when he was finished.

"Now, what are you going to tell me, Gavroche?" Aimée asked, watching as he wiped his face on his already filthy sleeve.

"They're going to storm the parade tomorrow," Gavroche said, flicking at a crumb as he spoke. "Enjolras, Marius, Grantaire, all of them. They're going to march with General Lamarque's casket, they have flags and everything!"

"And what's supposed to be the purpose of this?"

"I dunno. Make the police mad, I guess. Enjolras said that they're not going to shoot until the police do."

So the schoolboys' righteous plan for equality was provocation. Aimée looked at Gavroche, who started to whistle and swing his legs from his perch.

"And where will you be in all of this, Gavroche?"

"Right there with them! I'm going to help my country, show the people equality and justice! Marius will take care of me, and Enjolras."

The brightness in his eyes at the prospect of revolution unnerved Aimée. The poor boy had no idea how cruel war will be. No doubt he hardly understood the idea of death.

"What will they do if some policemen actually fire and a fight breaks out?"

Gavroche tapped his fingers on the countertop. "They're going to go back to the Café and build a barricade. Blocking off the street with chairs and wood and stuff. They're going to block off the road so the soldiers won't be able to get us. Then we'll fight from there.

"Gavroche, I don't want you there. I want you to find somewhere safe and hide. You're just a boy, no fighting. You could get hurt."

She watched as Gavroche rolled his eyes.

Aimée reached out and ran a hand over his matted hair and down his grubby cheek. Her words were falling on deaf ears, and she was painfully aware of that. She knew that the second Gavroche left her house, he would scamper back to the Café. Back to the guns and bullets and men that sat upstairs and plotted rebellion. Gavroche thought he was one of them, but he was not. He was a boy. A grubby, thin, little boy who called the streets home. She grew angry at Enjolras and the others, allowing a child to get swept up in violence beyond his years, allowing him to put himself in danger without fully knowing what could happen.

Aimée sniffed and pulled her hand away from his face. "Just…please. Be as safe as you can, Gavroche. For me."

He nodded, "I'm sneaky, Aimée. No one will catch me."

She prayed to God that his words were true. Truth often spoke from the mouth of babes.

"Go on then, get out of here," Aimée said, straightening and tossing her head towards the door. Gavroche hopped from the stool and strode his way to the door, pretending to be much bigger than he was. He gave Aimée a low bow and smiled at her. Aimée noted the gaps in his grin from missing baby teeth. By the time the door shut behind him, the boy was lost in the crowd outside.

Aimée turned back and saw the dregs of milk settled in the bottom of the glass and the crumbs from his treats sitting on the plate. Her throat tightened as she thought of the little boy and she felt as if she could cry.

"I want all of you armed," Javert's voice boomed. In the high-ceilinged hall of the _Palais de Justice_, the Inspector's words echoed like thunder. "All of you. Pistols, rifles, swords, clubs, whatever you have. If those foolish boys think for a moment that they can start a revolution in my city, they are mistaken!"

Soldiers and officers lined the walls and Javert paced between them, his back straight and shoulders back. His hands were clasped behind him and a sabre hung at his hip. He glanced around at his men with cold green eyes.

"Mounted cavalry will be at the front and rear of the funeral procession. Between them will be officers and soldiers on foot. If conflict should break out, _we will not shoot first, _is that understood?"

The crowd boomed with a resounding, "Yes, Sir!"

"Good. Draw your weapons, threaten them if you must, but I will not have a revolution started by a shot from one of my own rifles. However, once they fire, that is an act of war. Wars should be fought. Show those schoolboys what happens when they try and break the law. The law will break them back!"

Javert retreated to the front of the hall and looked over his men, lined and in uniform. He felt the hotness of pride start to swell in his chest and he lifted his head higher. "I will be undercover in the crowds. Officer Hoight will be commanding you tomorrow. You are to assemble here at the _Palais _at nine o'clock, is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Good. Should revolution break out, show those schoolboys that they are toying with something more dangerous than they ever could have imagined. They will wet themselves like the children they are! We will end this foolish revolution before it even had time to get started!"

Cheers echoed around him and Javert's pride bloomed again and for a moment, he forgot how upset he was about going undercover. He felt the anticipation for tomorrow twinge at his nerves and make his fingers tap against each other behind his back.

"I want all of you to eat a good dinner tonight and get some sleep. Well rested soldiers are good soldiers. At ease, men. You are dismissed."

The soldiers broke their lines and began to head towards the door, excited, cocky murmurs of tomorrow floated through the cavernous hall and met Javert's ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hoight step from his spot in the corner and approach.

"You have a gift for words, sir," Hoight said, standing next to Javert and crossing his arms in front of him. Javert looked straight ahead, watching the last few soldiers slip out the door.

"Thank you, Officer Hoight."

"How are you feeling about going undercover?"

"It's my job. It has to be done. I was ordered to do it and I shall oblige."

Hoight shook his head and looked down at his polished shoes, his ugly face downturned. "I wouldn't be so willing if I was in your shoes, Inspector."

Javert turned to look at him, his brows furrowed. Hoight looked up and stared down the hall, not meeting Javert's eyes.

"I owe you an apology, sir. Under your command, I acted like a stubborn fool, speaking with disrespect and unprofessionalism. The way you responded to Legrande, even though I knew you were unhappy for the assignment and Legrande is a fool to make you do that, showed me how I should act."

Javert turned back and the men were content not to make eye contact.

"I wish you safety, sir," Hoight said, rubbing a hand over his ugly face. "Paris will be in trouble if something happens to you. I sure as hell can't lead anything."

Javert swallowed and nodded, not really knowing how else to respond.

"Yes, well…get some rest tonight, Inspector," Hoight said after a bout of silence. He turned and extended his hand.

Javert watched it for a moment before he extended his own and the two men shook, their grips strong. Hoight gave Javert a curt bow before he drew his hand away and made his way down the hall and towards the door. When it shut behind him, Javert noticed how lonely he felt in the ornate gut of the _Palais de Justice._


	34. Chapter 34

_**Hey guys! Once again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews, they make my day! Enjoy!**_

XXXIV: It Begins

Javert stared at the clothes that were draped across his bed. Grubby trousers, worn shirt, a navy coat, and a lumpy cap. Outside, the inky blackness of the night was starting to weaken with the lightness of dawn. The stars were fading in the sky. Javert couldn't help but worry that this would be the last time he would be able to look out upon the twinkling lights.

_Don't think like that. You promised her._

The cloth of the pants felt rough and cheap as he pulled them on. He immediately missed the heaviness of his uniform trousers. Javert pulled off his white undershirt and stared at the other clothes, his chest bare. He swung his arms idly and moved his head, stretching the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He ran a hand over his face and looked at the scar on his left hand. The fire burned behind his eyes and Javert realized the temptation to abandon his order was overwhelming. Turning his eyes up to the window, he searched, trying to find Aimée's shop, but he knew there was no way to see it from his location. Javert wondered if she was awake. Probably not. He pictured her sleeping, curled up in his shirt with her hair a wild, tangled mess. The rosiness in her cheeks and her soft little snores.

He muttered a prayer to St. Michael as he pulled the shirt over his head and tucked it into his trousers. He turned and headed to the looming wardrobe. Pulling out the pistol, he held it in his hands, felt the weight of the metal and wood. Heaving a dejected sigh, Javert realized that the gun was too bulky and conspicuous to hide on his person. Lowering his head, he placed it back in his wardrobe and grabbed the smooth-handled baton. Padding back over to the bed, he sat on the edge and pulled on his boots. Then, hiking up his pant leg, he slipped the baton into the boot so it laid flat against his calf. Covering his hidden weapon with the leg of the trouser, he stood and paced a couple rounds around his bedroom, making sure that the straightness of the baton didn't affect his stride. Pleased with the result, he stood and looked at the cap. Watching his faint reflection in the windowpane, Javert put it on, adjusting it so it sat crookedly on his head.

He remembered a simpler time. A time when his life was obsessed with tracking down a simple criminal, the missing Jean Valjean. He remembered being so enraged at the thought of a convict slipping through the grips of justice. The day he set Valjean free on parole had been a mistake. Javert's eyes closed and he even remembered the distant memory of the briny salt air of Toulon clinging to his skin and making his mouth taste briny with every breath. Behind his lids, he saw the sunny memory of a rosy-cheeked girl thrusting wilted flowers in his face. In the heaviness of the dawn, he dared a smile. As he thought back on the dawn of a revolution, he realized that it had all been so simple then

Javert moved to the chest at the foot of his bed and opened the lid to reveal the small cedar box inside. Gently opening the lid, the pale satin of his handkerchief shined up at him. At the end of every day, Javert would gently lay it back among Aimée's letters. The satin felt cool against his skin, welcoming him in silky comfort every time he picked it up. Brushing it against his cheek, Javert folded it up and tucked it away in his pocket before he stood.

Javert's footsteps were heavy when he neared the fireplace, empty and stale from the summer months. Kneeling and reaching out, Javert covered his hands in soot and even streaked a couple grubby lines over his face, just to make it look like he was a man of the streets. Brushing away the excess ash and smearing his hands across his pants, he stopped to look over his room once more. Dawn was starting to break, and he decided to go downstairs. Pocketing the small amount of money he had left out, Javert slipped out the door into the quiet Parisian streets.

Most of the streets were empty, save for a few bakers shuffling their way to their shops to begin baking. The few people who were outside paid no attention to Javert. They merely pushed by him without giving him a glance. He picked his way through the city, looking down every ally he came to, trying to picture where these young revolutionaries would make their base. Every time he passed a window with the glowing light of a lamp, he would become suspicious. Turning up the collar of his coat against the early morning eeriness, Javert continued on his way until the sun started to grow stronger over the horizon.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"That's not true." Éponine was not easily fooled. Aimée looked up at her from behind her counter. There was a bag packed and hidden away in the back room and she was stuffing whatever money she could find in a leather envelope.

"I'm packing away my money," Aimée stated, tying the string around her valuable bundle and disappearing in the back room. No point in lying about what Éponine had clearly seen.

"Why?"

"Worry about your own life, Éponine."

The young girl gave a shrug and uncrossed her arms. "Are you ready to go? I don't want to be late for the parade.

"Yes, just hold on."

The two women were wearing grubby clothes that didn't match their gender. Trousers, stockings, boots, and shirts that hid their feminine figures well. Their hair was braided and tucked underneath tattered caps.

"Chances are, if we wanted to go to the barricade, they wouldn't let us. The boys think that the women should hide away where it's safe," Éponine had explained as she gave Aimée some spare clothes.

Aimée knew that this whole thing was stupid. She should've just done what she had promised, hide away inside where it was safe. But, the thought of Javert out there in the midst of all the danger kept her from staying behind a locked door. Aimée couldn't stand not knowing if he was safe or not, couldn't stand the thought of losing him again after all this time.

"You have your pistol, right?" Aimée asked, looking at 'Ponine. The pretty, young brunette nodded.

"Good." The last thing Aimée wanted was gunfire…but she decided she would rather have the protection if things went south.

Outside, crowds were already pushing past each other to try and stand as close to the side of the road as possible. Aimée and Éponine easily threaded their way through the crowd so they could see the proceedings without trouble.

"Aimée, there. Look," Éponine said, grabbing Aimée's upper arm and pointing across the road. Across the way, the boys were standing. One big group as if they were afraid to separate. Enjolras stood at the front, somber-faced and tall, the folded red cloth of a flag clutched in his hand. Aimée bit her lip, craning her head to try and spot more faces in the crowd. Javert's was nowhere to be found.

Up ahead, quiet thrumming echoed through the streets. Aimée looked ahead and saw the shapes of soldiers marching, big round drums swaying in front of them. She looked upwards, towards the shabby, depleting elephant that towered above the streets. Her heart clenched when she saw Gavroche's grubby face watching the approaching drummers. Aimée felt her heart quicken with the growing pounding of the drums. A hand reached out and gripped her sleeve. Éponine met her eyes and nodded.

_If only she knew_.

The clop of hooves melded with the drumrolls. Huge black horses snorted and pulled at the reigns of the large funeral carriage. Tall, feathered plumes sprung from the horse's brows and the wind snapped the black flags above. As the soldiers neared, Aimée watched the sunlight reflect of shined metal breastplates and helmets. She swallowed.

The soldiers had prepared for a war.

Her eyes flicked back to Enjolras. His face was as still as stone, his eyes darkening with every thrumming beat of the drums. She could almost see his knuckles whiten as he gripped at his flag.

The first row of drummers passed without incident, as did the second and third. Aimée could feel her heart pound in her chest, waiting for someone to make a move. The weight of the hidden pistol in her waistband reminded her of the chaos that could break out at any moment. The tension in the air could be sliced open with a knife.

Once the mounted soldiers began to cross the young revolutionaries' path, she saw a flicker of movement. Enjolras burst from the line of spectators, calling out to the men around him. She couldn't hear his words over the drumbeats, but she watched as Marius and Grantaire followed him, holding up swaying banners and flags of red, white, and blue. Others followed them, mostly young men. Aimée felt Éponine's hand tighten around her arm and she started to pull her towards the street.

"No," Aimée exclaimed, trying to wrench away.

"Come on! It's for our country!" Éponine urged.

_No. We shouldn't even be here,_ Aimée thought wildly, her eyes wide as she watched Marius and Enjolras climb their way to the top of the black carriage. Éponine let her hand slip from Aimée's sleeve and pushed her way to the parade. Aimée watched her disappear in the crowd near the tall, black wheels.

Shouts and cheers resounded around her, muting out even the thrumming drumbeats. More and more people slipped from the crowd to join the protest. Flags had materialized out of nowhere, billowing through the air like the banners of war. Even little Gavroche was swaying a flag of red over the plaster elephant. Craning her neck, she watched as fleeting shapes flitted behind the rickety fence that blocked off the elephant's square from the rest of the road. Turning, Aimée pushed her way through the crowd, trying to get farther up the road, trying to see if she could spot Javert.

It was no use. She felt the despair of frustration grow in her gut and she turned to look out at the cheering crowd, the billowing flags, and the determined faces of the schoolboys. Giving up, Aimée turned and forced her way out to the parade. She had no choice but to join the revolutionaries. Once she broke free of the crowds, Aimée walked alongside the rolling carriage, staying as close to the outside edge as possible in case she needed to make a quick getaway. For once, she was grateful for the grubby clothing she wore, the cap shielding her face. Aimée spotted Éponine gazing up at Marius and cheering along with the others, a smile wide on her face and her hand pressed to the side of the carriage. Aimée looked up and saw Gavroche scamper his way to the top, standing alongside Enjolras, puffing out his chest to try and show the world he was a man. Inside her chest, her heart panged and she felt her lungs quicken with panic. Her stormy blue eyes darted about, trying to look past the swaying flags and cheering people, trying to find any sign of the man she loved. She needed to know he was safe.

Then, she snapped her head to look ahead of her when she heard the snorts of horses. The road was blocked by soldiers on horseback, their helmets shining in the sunlight. The metallic hiss of swords pulled out of their sheaths cut through air and the cheers died down. Aimée felt her stomach sink and she looked up to Enjolras and Marius with dread. The young men had cocked their pistols, raising them to meet the guards blockading the parade.

Aimée's blood coursed through her ears and the carriage stopped rolling. The crowds hushed, each person holding their breath as they witnessed the standoff. Aimée felt herself slink backwards, hoping she could slip back into the crowd and hide away without trouble. She wanted this whole thing to end. For a fleeting moment, as she looked up at the pistols she had provided for those schoolboys, Aimée hated herself. Hated what she had become, a smuggler for business. Whether she liked it or not, she had a large part in this revolution. A very large part.

And now, Javert, the man she loved, was lost in this crowd, risking his life for something she had helped create.

Just as she cast her eyes downwards in shame, the crack of gunfire shattered the silence.

* * *

Javert's head snapped to the side. There, over by the elephant statue, a rifle had fired.

Instantly, chaos broke.

Roars of anger filled the air and Javert craned his neck and watched as a group of citizens reached into a gap in the ramshackle wall and pulled out a young soldier. Javert grew angry, remembering his order of no gunfire unless the protestors shot first.

"He killed an innocent woman!" he heard a man shout.

More gunfire ensued and he found himself ducking close to the black carriage to try and seek cover from the bullets. He watched as soldiers fell and horses whinnied, rearing and tossing their riders. The young blonde who had climbed up to the top of the carriage slipped down and pulled himself up on a spare horse, thrusting his flag in the air and screaming, "TO THE BARRICADE!"

Barricade?

Javert watched the people swarm around him, running this way and that. His soldiers charged, cutting down protestors with their curved swords. Javert jumped aside as a horse thundered past, the young man in front of him not as lucky. He recognized the boy with dark hair, he had seemed to be part of the leaders in the revolution, right up there with the two blondes. Javert quickly knelt and helped the young man up, clutching him by his shoulders and hoisting him upwards before another horse could thunder past.

"Thanks, friend!" the man said, his hair dark and eyes shining. "Quick! To the barricades!"

Again with the barricades. Javert looked around, there was no sign of a barricade anywhere near here. Deciding this was his chance to slip into their base, Javert quickly followed the young man through the crowd.

The young revolutionaries moved as a mob, all of them sprinting away from Javert's soldiers. He ran as well, pushing his way to keep track of the men ahead of him. They wound their way through side streets and alleys until they reached a dead end. Javert looked up at the building.

_ABC Café? This is their safe house?_

The crack of wood on stone made him jump. Javert whirled around and looked to see a chair lying broken on the street next to his feet. He looked up in confusion and watched as furniture was thrust from windows. Chairs, sofas, wardrobes, wagons. The men of the revolution scrounged up whatever they could and began to build a massive pile in front of the café, blocking off the road.

Finally, their words rang true. A blockade. Thinking quickly, Javert gathered up the chair and hurried to help. There were forty or fifty men, running around and piling objects unceremoniously into a heaping obstruction. Soon, they had a massive mountain blocking the street. Javert looked inside one of the café windows, the warm candlelight reflecting on piles of rifles and pistols. They had more weapons than he had originally thought. Looking over his shoulder, he slipped inside to get a better look. Weapons were piled everywhere and he pressed his back to the wall in order to avoid men scampering this way and that as they tried to scrounge up more furniture for the barricade. Over in a corner on a cupboard sat a small pile of flowered badges. Javert quickly snuck over and slipped one from the pile. Pinning it to the lapel of his long overcoat, he moved back outside, boasting the colors of this foolish revolution as if he were one of them. Women overhead leaned out of their windows, waving handkerchiefs and curtains, anything they could find with the French colors. Javert unknowingly stuck his hand in his pocket and felt the satin on his fingertips.

Safely behind the barricade, the schoolboys rallied.

"We've done it!" a somber-faced young man yelled, his fist in the air. Javert hung towards the edge of the barricade, recognizing him as one of the protesters who had climbed upon the carriage.

"What now, Enjolras?" asked a boy with dark hair, the one Javert had helped up from the streets before they ran.

Enjolras looked around. "I need a volunteer," he said, lowering his fist and looking at the gathering of young men expectantly. "Someone to find out their plans."

_Establish trust,_ Javert thought, studying the men and realizing that no one was stepping forward.

"I'll go," he found himself saying, taking a step towards them and raising his hand. He lowered the brim of his hat and approached Enjolras. He felt nervous, his heart hammering, yet he hid it well behind his characteristic stone. "I was a soldier, fought in their wars. I know their ways, they won't suspect me."

Enjolras regarded him and Javert noticed how he looked older than his years, his jaw strong and eyes dark. "Are you sure, friend?"

"I know him," the dark haired man said, stepping forward and extending a hand to Javert. They shook and he spoke again. "I'm Grantaire, you saved me in the street," Grantaire said, turning to Enjolras, "I would've been trampled if this man hadn't helped me up."

Javert looked at Enjolras and was relieved when he finally nodded. "Alright."

"I will return when I can," Javert said, giving them a nod before he turned and slipped out the corner of the barricade. The street was empty, his soldiers had not followed them. They were no doubt in the square or back at the _Palais, _rallying or forming ranks. A plan was already forming in Javert's strategic mind. He would find them, find Hoight, and tell them of the barricade and the weapons. Then, he would give the order to march. With the proper firepower, that spindly barricade wouldn't last an hour. Those schoolboys wouldn't be hard to trick. This would all be over soon.

* * *

When Aimée heard Javert's voice, she had to physically hold on to Éponine's arm to stop herself from running forward.

"What are you doing?" her young friend asked, whirling around and looking at Aimée with a questioning brow.

She ignored Éponine's question and looked past her, watching in horror as Javert approached to speak to Enjolras. He was wearing a cap similar to hers and a long black coat, the colors of their badge pinned to his chest. His eyes were sure as he looked about, his acting flawless as he stood comfortably in the snake pit. Aimée pulled Éponine to hide around the corner of the café, shielding them from his view. If Javert saw her here, it would ruin everything, hell would have to pay.

"Aimée, what's going on?" Éponine asked again, seeing the fear that swept over the woman's face.

"I…there's…nothing," Aimée stuttered, covering her face with her hand for a moment. Her fingers touched the dampness on her cheeks. She didn't know she had been crying.

"Liar. Tell me what's going on."

Aimée looked up and watched Éponine, the young woman she had watched grow up. Aimée ran a hand over her cheek and sighed. "It's complicated, Éponine, so complicated. But I'll be fine. I promise." She was unsure of whether or not she was lying.

Luckily, Éponine nodded, accepting Aimée's words and daring her a smile. "It's exciting, isn't it? We're finally part of something bigger."

The smile was forced as Aimée nodded. "Yes. Something much bigger." It disappeared once Éponine left her and returned to the barricade, standing near Marius as the men spoke. Poking her head out from her hiding place, Aimée saw that Javert had left. Pressing her back to the wall, she sank down until she was sitting on the hard cobblestones. The world seemed to close in around her. She saw now how foolish she was being. The promise that she had made to Javert stirred in her memory and the guilt tasted sour in the back of her throat. He was just here, and now he was gone, volunteering to endanger himself even more!

Pressing her hands to her temples, Aimée struggled to calm herself. Cheers of young men, young foolish boys, made her head spin and the dampness of the air clung to her skin and she felt herself blanche in a nervous sweat. Clenching her eyes shut, Aimée forced herself to feel the strength of Javert's arms around her, the stroking of his thumb against her cheek. Her own words rung in her ears and the memory of his deep murmur made her skin prickle.

_Promise me you'll be safe… Promise that you'll return to me, Mattieu. _

_I promise. _


	35. Chapter 35

XXXV: The Wrath of Fate

Javert had met with Hoight nearly an hour ago. His orders were simple. Wait until night had fallen to attack. He would tell the revolutionaries the opposite of the truth. Javert would convince them that there would be no attack tonight, convince them to lower their guard and ease them into a false sense of security. Then, once Javert's men would strike, the surprised schoolboys would have no time to form a battle plan.

When Javert saw the spindly pile of the barricades, he felt himself pause. No one had spotted him. The handkerchief felt like a dead weight in his pocket and he thought for a moment how easily it would be for him to slip away. He could find Aimée and then they could leave together, unnoticed in the time of conflict.

Frustrated with himself, Javert shook his head, his brow furrowing and jaw clenching shut. Javert loved Aimée, with every fiber of his being, but he could not bring himself to become a deserter.

As quickly as he could, Javert neared the barricades. He heard a shout as he was spotted and he held up his hands. "I have returned from their lines," he called, glancing to the right were he knew the entrance was. He saw Enjolras climb to the top of the barrier and wave him in.

"What have you seen?" Grantaire asked, clapping Javert on the shoulder in the weakening light.

Javert put on a show of looking sincere. "I must admit, they have more men than I had originally thought. Armies to spare."

Concerned murmurs floated around the men and a couple faces flashed with fear.

"So? We have passion. We can fight them all off!" Enjolras said, stepping forward and looking like a headstrong pup. "We are fighting for a just cause, they are following orders. Soldiers don't have heart."

_Nor do they have foolish ideas of what is just, _Javert thought.

"There will be no attack tonight," the Inspector lied easily, "They intend to starve you out. Strike while you're weak. If we-"

"Liar!" piped up a little voice from a perch on the barricade. Javert looked up, his eyes wide with disbelief as he spotted a grubby faced child. "I recognize this man, it's Inspector Javert!" the boy cawed, pointing with a sardonic smile.

For an instant, everyone froze. Then, Javert whirled and pushed his way to the passageway that led out of the barricade, but the young men were upon him instantly. He ground his teeth and shoved them aside, but there were too many of them. His arms were held back and he struggled, trying to wrench free from the revolutionaries. The dirty boy slid his way down to the cobblestones and studied Javert, his little eyes narrowed as he thought.

"Yup. That's him. He picked me up once at Thénardiers. Would never forget a face like that!"

"Well done, Gavroche!" cheered the men. They started to pull Javert into the café.

Javert managed to force his way free and shoved the men aside. He stumbled inside, looking for anything to use as a weapon. The wood of his baton pressed against his leg and he quickly bent to free it. He had no time, the revolutionaries were approaching fast. The baton slipped from his pant leg and clattered to the floor. Balling his hands into solid fists, Javert swung at the first person he saw, his punch catching them square in the face. There was a flurry of activity, and Javert swung and fought as best he could, but there were just too many of them. He felt strong hands secure his arms again and a solid punch slammed into his gut. A guttural groan escaped his lips and Javert slumped forward, struggling to refill his lungs with air. They let him slide to the floor and he looked upwards, gasping and heaving. Enjolras was approaching with his own baton in his hand.

Consumed with his own rage, Javert glared up at him, a foolish child pretending to walk in a man's shoes, "Don't have the stomach to kill me now, boy?" Javert seethed, "You are all fools. Every last one of you!"

"Shut up," Enjolras snarled, clutching the baton in his hand.

Javert watched as he held it above his head and thrust it downwards with all his might. The Inspector felt a dull thud on the side of his temple and the world went black.

* * *

"Aimée, Aimée!" Gavroche called, scuttling through the new darkness of the ally. He found the woman sitting with her head resting back against the wall of the ABC Café. The boy hurried over, his face beaming in excitement. "Aimée! You're missing out! What are you doing back here?"

At the sound of his voice, Aimée opened her eyes and searched Gavroche's face in the dim light. "What's going on?"

"I just saved everyone," Gavroche declared, puffing out his chest and clutching the sides of his coat in his tiny fists.

"What?"

"I did! I found a spy! Inspector Javert, he tried to-"

"What?" Aimée exclaimed, quickly standing and looking down at the proud little boy. She felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest. "What did you say?"

"I found Inspector Javert, tried to dress up like one of us."

"What did you do? What did they do?" Panic was a nasty, whispering thing as it began to build inside her. How could she have missed that? Were there gunshots? Her mind betrayed her and showed flashing images of Javert lying broken on the cobblestones, blood pooling from a bullet wound in his chest or between his eyes.

Gavroche took a few cautious steps backwards when he picked up on her distress. "He's inside. They tied him up."

"Is he alive?"

"Yeah."

Aimée pushed past the little boy and hurried back around front. The men were all gathered around the barricade, holding pistols and rifles, laughing and talking with each other as if they were attending a party. Aimée slipped past them and hurried to the door of the café. The floor dropped away from her feet and she actually stumbled against the threshold, her hand to her face when she saw him.

Javert was slumped against a post, his lip bloody and more blood trickled down the side of his face from a bruise that had already started to form. His arms were bound behind him with rough rope and what looked like a noose wrapped around his neck, a warning if he had tried to struggle. The man's eyes were closed and his head slumped forward, the picture of pure defeat. Her heart cracked and she hated herself for being away when this happened. Maybe she could've helped, could've stopped them. No, she had just slipped away and hid in an ally.

A revolutionary she did not recognize was watching over him. Aimée did her best to try and compose herself before she stepped over to him, tearing her eyes away from the unconscious Javert.

"I've been asked to guard the prisoner. You can go out and drink with your comrades."

Her voice sounded alright to her, a little bit shaky in the beginning, but strong enough to make the young man look out longingly at the drinks being shared between Enjolras, Marius, and Grantaire. He gave her a once over, decided that she could be trustworthy, and left his post. Aimée watched him leave, making sure that no one else was looking inside. They all had their backs to the windows of the café.

Aimée fell in front of Javert in a collapse. She reached out and ran her hands over his face as she knelt, the tackiness of the blood on her fingers making her stomach churn. "Oh, Javert…my love…I'm so sorry." A thin groan escaped the man's lips and Aimée's eyes fluttered closed from pain. In his unconsciousness, Javert pressed his face closer to the warmth of Aimée's hand and she opened her eyes to watch him. She wanted to kiss him, trace the lines of his face, take him away from there, but she couldn't She was risking so much just by kneeling in front of the bound man.

Forcing herself to stand, Aimée wiped her hands free of Javert's blood on her pants. She looked around, trying to find some way to free him. However, she knew it was useless. They were surrounded by men who hated him and the path to the barricade's exit was straight through the crowd.

Tears stung behind her eyes, reminding her how weak and foolish she actually was. Aimée bit her cheek until she tasted copper and let her head fall into her hands. How did this happen? They were happy only days ago, sharing a bed, sharing each other. She had worn a ring, sapphire and diamonds. It was hidden away now, she didn't want Enjolras or Éponine to see. Now look where God had put them. One in disguise and the other beaten unconscious and tied to a post.

Aimée pulled a chair sat down, bending as close to him as she dared. The night had settlee outside and she faintly wondered if the stars were shining down on all of this madness, watching.

"Remember when this all started, Mathieu?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with panic and grief. "When I tried to give you flowers I had torn from my father's garden? Remember when I hugged you in the graveyard after my mother's funeral? Remember when I held your hand back at Beaudet's party? Remember that now, as you sleep. Remember how happy we are, how much we love each other. " Aimée wondered if her flimsy actions of comfort actually did any good. She reached out and touched his face again. "We will be all right, when this is all over."

Aimée's head snapped up when she heard the frantic shouting of the men outside. They had all dropped their drinks, frothy beer and dark wine spilling into each other and soaking the cobblestones. She watched as everyone grabbed a weapon and pressed their bodies close to the wooden barricade. She spotted Éponine and Gavroche among them, a pistol in the young woman's hand. Aimée quickly stood from the chair and ran outside. As she neared, she heard the stomping of military boots. Fear seized her and she dashed as quickly as she could to Gavroche. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the boy's wrist and whirled him around to face her. Éponine turned to look as well.

"Gavroche, you need to get inside," Aimée pleaded, "Please. Get inside."

The boy pulled his arm away from her, "Not likely," the little pup barked, "My place is here, fighting for my country."

"Who's there?" a booming voice called, his command muffled from the wood of the blockade. Aimée glanced up, her eyes wide in fear as she looked at Enjolras, Marius, and Grantaire. She tried to plead with them, but there was no use. Enjolras's hand tightened around his rifle and he called back, "FRENCH REVOLUTION!"

"FIRE!"

There was an explosion around them. Aimée enveloped little Gavroche in her arms, desperately trying to protect him from the blast. The thick tang of gunpowder smoke wafted over the barricades and Aimée watched in horror as the boys began to climb their way to the top, some standing to shoot with their guns. The crack of rifles bit at her ears and she struggled to hold back a scream as she watched a young man fall, the red of his blood blooming like a rose on the white of his shirt.

"Aimée, get off me!" Gavroche argued, writhing and twisting his way free from her.  
The shock weakened Aimée's arms and she was helpless as Gavroche pushed his way free. He disappeared in the brawl before she had a chance to grab him again. Aimée looked about wildly, the shots of gunfire pounding in her ears. She crouched as closely as she could to the wood of the barricade, too frightened to run back inside or pick up a weapon. Looking up like a terrified rabbit, she spotted soldiers on the balconies above. They were surrounded, fired at from all sides. Aimée screamed when a stray bullet hit a wardrobe above her and wood splinters showered over her head. Looking above her, Aimée could see the tops of the soldiers' tall hats start to peek towards the top of the barricade. They were climbing the wall.

Turning to her right, she could see the revolutionaries start to climb as well, rifles aimed and ready. Gunfire rained overhead, even the explosion of a cannon, and Aimée craned her neck to watch. Looking down, she met eyes with Éponine. Éponine began to crawl towards the fighting, and Aimée desperately tried to claw at her.

"No, Éponine, stay here!"

"I have to go, Aimée!" Éponine had to shout over the chaos.

"No you don't, come back inside with me, you'll stay safe!"

"You can't protect me anymore, Aimée. I'm a grown woman now!"

Aimée looked at her, her brown bangs poking from underneath the brim of her cap, her round cheeks and slender neck. She still saw that little girl she had looked after years ago. Still saw the little girl who had followed her out to the woods and sat on her lap, asking for a story about a princess. Tears began to roll down Aimée's cheeks. _No you're not, Éponine. _"Please!"

Éponine gave her a small smile and shook her head. "My place is here, with my comrades, with my country."

"You owe nothing to them!" Aimée screamed, growing angry and desperate. She thought of the last conversation she had with Javert. He had insisted that he needed to do his duty, even if it meant a death wish. Why had he insisted? Why was Éponine insisting now? Even little Gavroche?

"Éponine!" Aimée yelled again, watching as her words were ignored and Éponine climbed towards the top. She watched as her little girl shouldered the rifle expertly and fired off a shot, knocking down a French soldier. It was chaos up there, and Aimée hardly knew who to watch. Enjolras, knocking down men left and right with a ferocity beyond his years, Grantaire who shook the bangs out of his eyes before he would fire a shot. Marius, who was too busy reloading his weapon to notice the barrel expertly aimed at his chest, the soldier wielding it already squinting his eye to aim.

"Marius!" Aimée screamed. Then, quick as a blink, Aimée watched in open-mouthed horror as Éponine shoved the boy aside, took the barrel in her bare hand, and held it squarely to her chest. There was a flash, the puff of smoke from the rifle's powder, and Éponine collapsed.

Aimée's scream drowned her.

The world dulled, slowed, quieted. All she could see was the slumped form of Éponine Thénardier rest like a doll against the wood of the barricade. Marius shot the soldier and quickly lifted a barrel full of black powder. Slamming the butt of his firearm into another soldier, the young man wrenched a torch from the fallen officer and held it to the barrel. Aimée didn't hear what he said.

Splinters bit at her fingers as she desperately clawed her way up to where Éponine was lying.

_No. No, no, no, no, NO. _"NO!" Aimée couldn't hear her own voice, couldn't see anything except for the red staining Éponine's shirt. Her chin shook and her throat began choke on heavy sobs. "Éponine!"

Finally reaching her, Aimée pulled her face into her hands. The young brunette's eyes fluttered open and she searched Aimée's face.

"Is he hurt?"

Aimée sniffed and ran a hand over Éponine's cheek, removing the stupid, ugly hat that sat on her head. "Who?"

"M-Marius."

Aimée looked up and saw Marius shout orders to the soldiers. Amazingly, it sounded as if they had backed off. She looked back down and met Éponine's hopeful eyes. "No. Marius is not hurt."

The heart in Aimée's chest clenched painfully as she saw the look of pure relief sweep over Éponine's face. "Good," she whispered, closing her eyes.

"No, Éponine, look at me," Aimée said, her voice frantic as she softly tapped the young woman's cheeks. "Come on."

The eyes fluttered open and Aimée looked down. She wrenched her own hat off her head and held it up to the wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

"I loved him, you know," Éponine said, her eyes starting to glaze. "Marius. I love him with my whole heart."

Aimée looked up, her face contorted by tears and pain.

Éponine met her stormy blue eyes with chocolate brown ones. "Aimée…have you ever loved?"

Her chin shook and she barely choked out, "Yes…"

"Tell me."

Aimée bowed her head, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. "The man inside, Inspector Javert…I have loved him since I was seventeen, Éponine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Éponine's breath grew ragged and a fresh wave of panic stirred in Aimée.

"And I have loved you, 'Ponine," Aimée admitted.

"I know…."

Aimée felt a seeping warmth tack her fingers and she looked down. She was horrified to see that the blood was soaking through the cap and staining her fingers.

"Aimée…" Éponine said, her head lolling to the side and her eyes even more glazed as she watched her dear friend. "I'm going to die."

Aimée couldn't speak, could hardly breathe. She felt a faint cold mist start to rain from the sky, as if the stars themselves were crying over the girl, barely a woman grown.

"I love you like my own mother," Éponine said, reaching up and clutching Aimée's bloodstained hand in her own and squeezing tightly. "But…please….bring me Marius. I need to see him, speak with him."

Aimée opened her mouth and whispered in a cracked voice, "I don't want to leave you."

"Please."

"Marius," Aimée called, her voice like sandpaper as she tried to yell. The blonde man turned and for the first time, Aimée noticed the pattering of freckles on his face. "Éponine…she needs you."

The young man hurried to where the two women were sitting. Aimée forced herself to stand and climb down to the bottom of the barricade in order to give the some privacy. Feet felt like cement and her hands shook with grief and she couldn't tear her eyes away from the two young people, couldn't bring herself to look away from her dying friend. She was so young…so full of life. Her smile could outshine the diamonds and her eyes were the richest of their color.

Aimée hugged herself and hunched forward as the sobs took over. Thick, ragged things that savaged her body and nearly made her retch. Her throat grew raw and coppery and her eyes clenched shut, trying desperately to block out the world that pressed around her, suffocated her. Her screams shattered the sky and the others turned to watch. When Aimée looked up, she had to cover her mouth when she saw Marius descending the pile of wood with Éponine draped in his arms, her head lolled back limply, her arm swaying uselessly at her side.

"She's dead," Marius said, his own voice cracking from tears. A fresh wave of sobs claimed Aimée and she approached him with tears running like rivers down her face.

"Éponine…my little 'Ponine," she whispered, taking her face in her hands and running her thumbs over her cheeks. She traced her brow with her finger, moved the lines of worry from her face. "Give her to me," Aimée demanded, taking the young woman into her arms. Amazingly, the grief gave her strength and she was able to carry Éponine back inside the café. The men watched her go in silence. Aimée could feel their eyes on her back.

As she walked, Aimée saw the curled up little girl of eight asleep in her arms, the little apples of the girl's cheeks rosy from the cold of the Thénardier's shabby inn and her hair curled around her face. Aimée hummed as she walked, ignoring how her arms screamed from the weight. Finding a table inside, Aimée gently laid Éponine's body down. With tears still slipping from her red-rimmed eyes, the woman took the girl's arms and moved them next to her body to make it look as if Éponine was merely resting. Then, with gentle caresses, Aimée swept the hair from her face. She ignored the ugly splotch of blood on her shirt. Ignored the fact that her chest wasn't rising and falling with breath. Ignored that Éponine's skin was growing colder and colder by the second.

Aimée stood over her and cursed God.

Outside, the fighting had ceased…for the time being. She turned and noticed that Éponine's hadn't been one of the only casualties. Aimée watched as the men picked up their fallen comrades and carried them inside, laying them side by side on the dusty wooden floor. In the corner, Javert was still slumped unconscious.

"Where's Gavroche?" Aimée sniffed, wiping her nose as Marius came in, his face twisted in pain as he stared at Éponine.

"He's left the barricade, he's sending a letter for me."

Aimée turned away from him. "How could you let this happen? How could you drag 'Ponine and Gavroche, who is only a child, into this?"

Marius took a step backwards, surprised by the ferocity in Aimée's voice.

"It's not my fault."

"She loved you!" Aimée yelled, turning to him and pointing to her little girl, grown up and dead on the table. "And what do you do? Drag her into this fight, this pointless, _stupid, _fight and get her killed!"

"This isn't my doing!" Marius fired back. "I loved her more than you could imagine, she was like family to me! I didn't even know she was here until it was too late!"

The pain made the anger stay. "And what do you have to say of Gavroche? A boy… thrust into the conflict of men."

"That's why I gave him a letter. I was hoping he would stray far from here, far from the danger," Marius said, casting his eyes downwards.

Defeated, Aimée turned back and braced herself on the edge of the table. Silence swelled and threatened to choke the life out of both her and Marius.

"Just because someone didn't love her the way she wanted, didn't mean someone didn't love her with everything they had, Aimée," Marius whispered, his voice a soft murmur. His footsteps were quiet as he turned to go.

Aimée's head lowered as even more tears began to leak from her eyes. These were gentler, the sobs from before dying way to her heavy breath in her lungs. Aimée leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Éponine's cheek. The prayer she whispered burned her mouth and she could feel God's gaze boring down on her, reveling in her pain and craving the sickly sweetness of grief.


	36. Chapter 36

_**Hey guys! Special shout out to Opheliasstory for her lovely reviews, and to Smiles1998 So glad you enjoy the story so much! And thanks of course to all of my reviewers, i love hearing what you all have to say. i greatly appreciate it! Enjoy!**_

XXXVI: Bitter Release

Hours passed in silence. Aimée stood and stretched, looking back at her chair that sat between Éponine's body and Javert's slumped form, his breath rising and falling. She was beginning to really worry. Time dragged by slowly and still the only movement from Javert was a groan and the tossing of his head. She had seen his eyes flutter once or twice and she leaned towards him, wanting to reach out and stroke is face, but the men outside were within view. As she looked around, she felt the walls of the room close in around her. The dead on one side of her and the wounded to the right. She couldn't stay here any longer, couldn't take it. The air was stale and rank in her lungs.

Aimée sighed and tossed her head backwards, gathering up her wavy hair and tying it away from her face with a spare length of ribbon. Then, casting one last glance to the crumpled form of the man she loved, she stepped out to the group of men, bottles in their hands. They stood aside as Aimée neared them, unnerved by her gaunt face and dry eyes, still red from her harsh sobs, even hours later. Enjolras approached her, his hand extended and a bottle beckoned her, the liquid inside dark and inviting.

Aimée took a swig and swallowed the biting wine, feeling the alcohol heat down her throat and bloom around her senses.

"I'm sorry," the leader offered, watching as the woman drank again from his bottle. Aimée shook her head.

"Don't speak of it. Not now."

"Understood."

They were unaware of her relationship with the Inspector. They only wanted to offer their pity for her dead friend. Aimée found herself glaring at Enjolras, knowing that he was the reason why her fiancé was tied up like some kind of animal inside, unconscious and blood staining the side of his face.

She felt her self-control die away and she opened her mouth to speak.

Before she could get the words out, there was a flurry of activity above them as their scouts shouldered the rifles and shouted out to a form.

Enjolras quickly climbed his way to the top, looking out over the street. "Halt!" he said, his voice strong, "Who goes there?"

There was a muffled voice that Aimée couldn't hear. Enjolras quickly slid down the wall of the barricade and beckoned for Grantaire and Marius to open the passageway. Aimée clutched the smoothness of the bottle in her hand as she watched a man, tall with curly graying brown hair and a straight nose, enter cautiously, his hands raised in surrender. He looked older, older than her without a doubt. Aimée's eyes narrowed when she noticed the uniform that clung to his body. He was a soldier. The revolutionaries had their guns on him before the stranger could speak. Aimée saw that his hands were large as they were raised in cautious submission.

"Who are you?"

"A volunteer, for your cause," the stranger said.

"You see that man in there?" Enjolras said, tucking his pistol in his waistband and tossing his head towards the window of the café. Aimée felt rage bloom in her chest as Enjolras talked about Javert. She watched as the man's eyes flickered to their prisoner. Aimée picked up on the strange way the stranger's face relaxed in mild shock. There was no doubt recognition flashed in his eyes. "He was the last one who claimed to be a volunteer. He's our prisoner now, the Chief Inspector Javert himself."

Aimée allowed herself to turn and look at Javert, still slumped forward in his binds. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw that his eyes had opened sluggishly. The noose around his neck made it hard for him to lift his head, but nevertheless, Javert managed to look through at the revolutionaries, his mouth open as he panted for air. Feeling a sweat break out against her skin, Aimée turned back and watched the stranger. She prayed Javert hadn't seen her.

"Hold on a tick!" came a small, reedy voice. Aimée whirled around and saw Gavroche pushing his way through a small tunnel in the barricade.

_So much for keeping him away…._

"I know him," the boy boasted. The young men relaxed around him, lowering their weapons but still watching him warily. "Don't worry, he's good."

Just as they were about to lower their weapons, the stranger snatched a gun away, his eyes wide as he craned his head upwards to the roof. "Enemy marksman!" he exclaimed, aiming expertly with the rile and pulling the trigger. Aimée didn't have time to flinch or cover her ears before the shot. She ducked and pressed her body close to the barricade again as the popping of gunfire flurried around her.

"There!" Enjolras cried, aiming with his pistol and firing. Aimée did not look behind her, but she heard the dull, slapping _thud, _of the dead soldier's body as it tumbled off the roof.

The revolutionaries buzzed, the guns still pointed towards the rooftops. Once the shots died away, Aimée quickly stood and watched the stranger intently. Enjolras approached him and clapped him on the back.

"Thank you, _monsieur. _ We are in your debt."

The older man shook his head, "I'm here for the cause."

Enjolras nodded towards the bottle in Aimée's hand she quickly handed it back to him. He took a swig and slipped away to check the barricades with the others. Aimée watched as the stranger stepped inside, his eyes on Javert. Javert was trying to look back, his eyes dull and only halfway open. No one noticed as Aimée hurried towards the café and ducked inside behind the older man.

When she was inside, she was pained to see that Javert's eyes had fluttered closed and he slumped forward weakly again, lapsing back into unconsciousness. She watched the man and a flicker of familiarity stirred in her memory. She stepped closer to get a better look.

"You…You know him?" Aimée asked, watching as he stood over Javert.

The man turned, his eyes wide with surprise.

"I…ah…no. I don't."

Liars, no matter how good they were, always stuttered when caught off guard by a woman.

"I know you do." Aimée called his bluff easily.

The man looked back down at Javert and sighed. "This man, Javert, and I share a…conflicted history."

Aimée narrowed her eyes. "Conflicted?"

"I guess you could say our career choices clashed."

Aimée's quick mind put two and two together. "You're Jean Valjean, aren't you?"

He lowered his head, "Yes. How do you know this?"

Aimée turned and looked over her shoulder. The truth was welling up inside her and it became painful to hold it.

"You were the mayor where I once lived. I'm surprised you don't remember me. My father was Gérard Lamenté, he worked for you. I remember seeing you, in the hospital. You were fighting with him, with Javert. Then you made your escape."

Valjean's mouth turned into a thin, hard line as he slowly recognized her, all grown up.

"When you left, I tended to him, helped him to a bed. I love this man, Valjean. With all of my heart, with everything I have," she confessed, the truth spilling from her lips before she could stop the words. "In Toulon, he left me to find you. It broke my heart. We've spent seventeen years, _seventeen years_ trying to find each other, trying to get back what we had, happiness."

Valjean's face softened and Aimée saw that his eyes betrayed him as a caring man. "Why are you telling me this, _mademoiselle?"_

"Because I need your help!" Aimée murmured urgently. "I've loved this man, yet I can know how hard and persistent he can be. I'm sure he made your life a living hell, I'm not condoning what he may have done. But, please, _monsieur,_ help free him. Tell Enjolras that you want him, make up a story, say you wish for revenge. Bring him out back and let him go."

The look of pure desperation made Valjean falter. He glanced down at the man who had haunted him, crumpled and defeated. It made him shift his feet uncomfortably.

"I've lived my entire life as a hidden criminal. Why would I do what you ask?"

Aimée's voice became strong. "Because I know that inside, you want to be more than a criminal. More than a man, even. Mercy is power."

"_Mademoiselle-_"

"My name is Aimée."

"Aimée… you are asking a lot. This man hunted me for years! Put my life and freedom under threat," Valjean said, pointing down at Javert, who let loose a groan and lolled his head back against the post. "And even if I did want to show him mercy, which he has spared none for me, how would I get him out of here?"

Aimée threw her hands up exasperatedly. "I don't know, you saved Enjolras's life, say you want a favor!"

Valjean's brow furrowed and Aimée watched as he crossed his arms, regarding the woman intently. He saw that she was beautiful, even wearing dirty clothes and dirt from the barricades. Her hair was blonde, just like his little Cossette's. Looking once again down at Javert, he heaved a large sigh. Was she telling the truth? Did this beautiful youthful woman really love the harsh, cruel Inspector Javert? The man that hunted Valjean like an animal through the dark Parisian alleyways?

Aimée hated the silence and blinked. She cast her eyes away in embarrassment when her lids felt damp. She hadn't known she was crying. Reaching into the worn pocket of her trousers, she pulled out a small sapphire ring. Holding it tenderly in her fingers, Aimée hung her head.

"Please…_monsieur… _I'm not ready to lose him again."

Ultimately, it was the desperate cracking of the woman's voice that made up Valjean's mind. He ran a hand through his curled graying hair and stepped nearer to the woman. He looked down at her, noticed how the darkness in her blue eyes toiled and churned. Inside them, Valjean saw truth, truth and love.

"Alright," he finally said. "I'll do it. I want to become a better man and you said it yourself, mercy is my power."

Bringing her hands up to her mouth in disbelief, Aimée realized that her voice was frozen from shock. Aimée almost fainted from the relief. She wanted to hug him, wanted to kneel and kiss the ground beneath his feet. Tears brimmed her eyes and she felt their trails curl across the lines of her smile.

"Thank you, _Monsieur _Valjean…God bless you. I…I don't know what to say. You have saved him."

Valjean couldn't help but give the woman a smile. The look of pure relief added to her beauty, swept the anxiety from her oceanic eyes and smoothed the lines from her face. He looked up and watched the young revolutionaries mill about, muttering to each other and lifting their bottles to their lips. He remembered a name from the letter the child had brought him.

"_Mademoiselle _Aimée, I need a favor from you now."

"Anything."

"Who is Marius?"

Aimée's brow furrowed. "Um, he's that one right there, the blonde hair, blue vest. Might I ask why, _monsieur?" _

"That little boy out there ended up on my doorstep with a letter. A love letter to my very dear daughter, Cossette. It was signed from Marius. That's why I came here."

"Seems we all have connections with love then," Aimée mused, looking longingly to Javert. "He is a good man, Marius. Kind, strong, loving. Your Cossette would be a lucky woman."

Valjean looked at the woman and she turned her head to meet his eyes as well. "Again I thank you, _monsieur._ I think it would be a good idea for me to go out there while you talk to Enjolras. Don't want them seeing me wait in here while it happens."

"Right."

Aimée gave the man a smile and she realized that her savior had been a convict. Aimée thought of the irony of the whole situation, Javert, a man of the law being rescued by an escaped thief. She gave his forearm a discreet squeeze of thanks when she brushed by him and stepped calmly back outside. Her footsteps were shaky, the amount of relief almost overwhelming her and making it hard not to stumble. The night air was damp, the sprinkles of rain dying away and the sky above murky with clouds, and she felt the coolness against the soft skin of her face.

Enjolras handed her the bottle again as she joined the circle of men. They were quiet, the whites of their eyes bright in the night as they continued to scan the rooftops. Aimée turned with the rest of them when she heard Valjean beckon Enjolras to the door of the café. She felt her heart rise to her throat and the fingers of her hand tightened around the smooth glass of the bottle. She watched as the two men bent their heads as they muttered quietly in conversation.

"What do you think of him?" came a questioning voice from behind her. Blinking, Aimée turned and looked at the freckled face of Marius.

"I…I think he's alright. Too early to say."

"You're wary of everyone. He's a good man, I can see it in his eyes. Plus, he saved all of our skins from those marksmen," Marius crossed his arms and Aimée thought of what Valjean had told her. She was about to speak, but noticed that Marius was busy watching the door of the café. Enjolras had finished speaking with Valjean and was stepping back to the circle.

"What'd he want?" little Gavroche piped, his voice high and expectant.

Enjolras looked behind his shoulder. Valjean had ducked back inside and was standing over Javert. He had woken back up and was squinting upwards, trying to meet Valjean's eyes. Aimée noticed how defeated he looked and quickly looked away.

"He wanted Javert, told me that he had some unfinished business with him," Enjolras said. "I told him to finish that snake in the grass however he chose. They're heading out back."

Aimée felt panic set in from the story. She prayed that Jean Valjean was a man of his word.

* * *

His head pounded thickly. His mouth was dry and he felt a clinging wetness tacked on to the side of his face. Struggling to crack his eyes open, the candlelight seared him as if he were looking directly at the sun. Groaning, Javert moved to wipe at his face, but he found that his hands were restrained. His shoulders ached in their sockets and he could feel the roughness of the rope chafe his wrists. The muddiness inside his brain was stubborn as it clung desperately to his memory, casting a shadow on most things. Slowly, they began to return to him.

Realization stabbed Javert painfully when he remembered that he had been captured by the rebels. Aimée's face swam to the surface and the thought of her mad his head slump until the tightness of the noose made him lift it back up slightly. Aimée. He had promised her, and yet there he sat, bound and bleeding with a pounding in his head trying to stay conscious.

There was a snap in front of his face that sounded like gunfire and he flinched violently, snapping his head upwards. A blurry silhouette stood in front of him, leaned over and drawing its hand away from Javert's face. Blinking away the shock of the snap, Javert realized that his head was clearing.

A tall man wearing a soldier's uniform came into focus. Javert's brow furrowed in confusion. For a moment, he felt hope fill him, lifting his spirits with the thought of his soldiers bursting through the barricade. Looking past him, he felt his heart sink as he looked at the young rebels still outside, huddled in a circle and drinking, their rifles leaning against the piled mess of a barricade. Javert glanced to his side and saw bodies lined on the floor and a woman lain out on a tabletop, also dead. They all looked so young to him.

He turned away.

"Do you know me?" the man in the soldier's uniform asked.

Javert struggled to look upwards, the noose making it hard for him to lift his head. He began to shake his head, but as he looked, he saw the man's eyes. Javert's mouth fell open in angry disbelief and his eyes narrowed.

"Valjean." The name left his mouth in a distasteful mutter.

Valjean nodded and stepped behind him. Javert heart the quick noise of a knife unsheathing and he braced himself against the pole. There was a quick sawing motion and his hands fell free. Javert brought his hands to his front, wincing from the ache in his shoulders, and rubbed his raw wrists.

"What are you-"

Javert was interrupted by the click of a pistol.

"Get up," Valjean ordered, the barrel pointed squarely at Javert's chest.

The pale-green eyes darkened and he felt himself struggling to stand, his leg prickling uncomfortably from being asleep. He grew angry. "So you're finally going to kill me?"

"Move. Out that door. Go," Valjean said, motioning with the gun. He ignored Javert's seething words and followed.

At first, Javert tried to stay strong, tried to keep his head raised from stubborn pride. However, once the thought of Aimée reached him, Javert's head dropped from the heaviness of his despair. Her words ran though his head with every step.

_Promise me you'll be safe…promise you'll return to me._

A threatening heat of tears began to burn the back of his eyes. He had broken Aimée's promise once again, thrown her in the fire of his lie. Javert remembered standing in front of the fireplace, watching as the flames ate the letters of her heart, chewed them up and reduced them to ash. He saw her sitting in the kitchen of her house, watching for him, waiting up in the night for his return. Weakness shook his knees as Javert pictured the sapphire ring that hugged her elegant finger. The black dress with pearl buttons made her look like a ghost as he thought of her in the cemetery. The idea of her wearing it again made him sick.

Javert's footsteps were slow, heavy. He bitterly realized that it was the one last thing he could control, how long it took him to reach his execution. The man's eyes fluttered closed when he stepped through the doorway and the stuffiness of the café dropped away to the cool dampness of night. The back alleyway was narrow, the cobblestones damp and slick. Crates were backed against the café wall and the ally curved out and twisted its way through surrounding buildings.

It was time for him to face Valjean.

"So…you finally get your way. You finally get to kill me and live your life behind your lies," Javert said, turning and looking into Valjean's eyes. The years had been kind to the escaped criminal. His face had aged kindly, with smile lines crinkling his eyes and mouth. He was taller than Javert remembered.

Valjean said nothing. He tucked the pistol into his waistband and pulled out the knife again. Javert felt the metallic taste of fear, but he hid it well. The blade glinted in the gloomy backstreet.

"A knife? Fitting. Once a thief, always a thief I suppose."

Saying nothing, Valjean lunged forward and Javert closed his eyes to meet him, his body tense for the stinging bite of the knife as it cut through is skin. Feeling the coolness of the blade on his neck, Javert held Aimée's face in his mind, wishing that she was the last thing he saw.

The knife didn't cut him. He felt the rope of the noose fall away from his throat and opened his eyes, his brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at Valjean.

"What are you-"

"Get out of here," the convict murmured, tucking the knife away and tossing his head towards the alley.

Javert didn't move. Surely this was some kind of trick.  
"Go."

The Chief Inspector turned and looked at the passageway before him, dark and inviting as an escape. Turning back, he spotted the pistol in Valjean's belt.

"So you can shoot me in the back?" Javert snarled, his hands balling into fists.

"I'm not going to kill you, I'm letting you go."

Javert's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"To show you that a man can change. I haven't been a thief for a very long time, Javert."

Instead of seizing the opportunity of escape like he should have, Javert questioned it.

"That is no reason to let your enemy go. I've hunted you, Valjean. I will hunt you again. Men can't change."

"You did, Javert."

"What?"

"I can see it in your eyes. You are a changed man, we both are, and by the same thing. Love. Me from my little Cossette and you from your Aimée."

Rage built up inside him. "How do you know this? Who told you? So help me, if you hurt her-"

Valjean raised his hands, "I have not hurt her, never touched a hair on her head, Javert. But her love saved you."

"What do you mean?"

Valjean sighed. "When I saw you in the café, I had no intention of letting you go. None. I would've let you stay there, no matter how my conscience would've protested. But, I was approached by a woman, Aimée, she said her name was."

Javert blinked in disbelief.

"She said that she loved you and pleaded with me to let you live, so you can return to her. She told me that she couldn't live with losing you again," Valjean said, turning to look over his shoulder. "You have to go. A few more minutes and they'll start looking for us. Go."

Shock numbed him. He felt a shove on his shoulder and stumbled off down the alley. Ducking around a wall, the shot from Valjean's pistol cracked in his ears and shocked him into running. Javert's mind reeled from the convicts words.

_Aimée? At the barricade? She was supposed to be at home…._

When Javert staggered out where the back road emptied into the main street, free from the rebels and the barricade, he collapsed against a streetlamp, holding himself up and breathing heavily.

_Aimée…at the barricade…._

He felt betrayed. The woman he loved, cared for, fought for, she was there, the whole time. Had she seen him tied up? Had she fought next to them? What other lies had she hidden? Anger made his jaw clench and hurt made his eyes press close. How had he not seen this?

Javert slid to his knees in the street, his shoulder leaning against the wrought iron of the lamppost. Letting his face fall into his hands, he felt the wetness of tears on his palms, mixing with the tackiness of the blood from his temple. Javert had fought his entire life against crime and anarchy. Put his safety at risk to try and prevent revolution, to try and maintain order. All the while, Aimée Lamenté had scampered around, aiding rebels and fighting against everything he was, everything he had known and stood for.

Hunched over in the lonely Parisian street, Javert's mind began to reel, thinking unreasonable thoughts. Suspicions whispered in his ear, making his sense drip away. If her life had been a lie, what about her love? Was that falsified as well?

_I have no way of knowing…_ Javert thought, sniffing and trying to wipe at his eyes. _You're a fool. You have no way of knowing if she truly loved you. She was behind the barricade. Fighting with…with those __**boys.**_

Javert struggled to do what he had always known…build stone. He stood, cruel little thoughts still swirling around in his head. Slowly, he felt all the raw emotion drain from him, replaced by his sense of duty. He remembered his plan with Hoight. There was no time for this, there would be a second attack any time and he needed to get out of the area.

Looking around to get a sense of his location, Javert set off towards the direction of the _Palais, _the stinging pain of Aimée's lies biting at his heels.


	37. Chapter 37

XXXVII: Teetering Along the Edge

Aimée felt dampness in her feet. She looked down and cried out, recoiling in disgust as she realized the puddle she was standing in was a sickly shade of crimson. Bodies littered the square, soldiers and revolutionaries alike. The smell of blood hung stickily in the air and she felt herself gag, bringing a hand up to her face.

Aimée Lamenté was numb. She didn't cry as she approached the barricade, looking down to try and avoid the bloody puddles and smears. The wood was a splintered mess, shattered and broke through. The French cannons had made short work of it. Stepping through the gaping hole, Aimée looked up at the café. The face of Enjolras stared unseeingly down at her, upside down as he hung from the open window. He looked so very young now. His skin smooth and flawless in death. His flag was wrapped around him, tangling him in a web of crimson fabric. The late afternoon sun made the colors around her glow brightly, giving vibrancy to the blood on the streets and the flags flickering faintly in the slight breeze.

Guilt began to flicker in the back of her head. She remembered slipping away about a half hour after Javert had been turned loose, ducking down the same ally in the back. Once she was out in the street, Aimée looked for him, but the man was nowhere to be found. Aimée had about expected as much…no doubt Valjean told Javert why he was being let go. Javert, being a smart man, would surely figure that Aimée was involved with the rebels. Realize that she had lied to him.

Dejected, she had hurried back to the house…maybe he had stopped there. But when Aimée arrived, the halls were empty, and so were all the rooms. There was no sign of Javert anywhere. She felt herself collapse on her bed, alone in the dark. She wept, cried for her dead Éponine and the heart she feared she had shattered. At first, the woman was sorry for herself, lamenting about how cruel the world was around her. Then, deciding she was going to do something, she forced herself to stand. Reaching into the dirty pocket of her trousers, Aimée pulled out her ring and slipped it on her finger. It gave her strength to leave her room and go back downstairs to the shop. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she knelt behind the counter and grabbed the satchel of francs she had hidden. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she quickly ducked out of the shop, locking it behind her.

The thunder of cannon fire shook the ground beneath her feet. Aimée panicked and pressed herself close to the wall of a building across the street, the hard plaster pressing against her palms and back. The popping of rifles followed suit and she knew that battle had broken out at the café once again. Deciding that it would be certain death to return, she quickly ran in the opposite direction, towards the Seine. It may have seemed cowardly, but Aimée was well aware that there was a very thin line between stupidity and courage. For the rest of the night, and most of the morning, Aimée wove her way around the inner city, desperately trying to find any sign of Javert.

Hours later, when the sky was painted with the blue and yellow of day, Aimée stood in front of the seized café, blood spattering the cobblestones like splotches of paint beneath her feet. The weight of her satchel dug into her shoulder, but she ignored it, bracing herself as she stepped through the threshold. Death was not a subtle smell. It hung in the air and staled it, tainting the oxygen like poison. Aimée held a hand to her face and looked around. Bodies were lined up, but she made no point to look at them right away. Bullet holes riddled the walls, splinters bursting forth like needles. Tables were overturned and chairs tossed into the corners. Above her, the ceiling was punched with holes from the soldiers' rifles. She closed her eyes and sighed sadly. These boys…all of them…dead for some foolishly noble cause. Martyrs drowning in their own blood.

It was time for her to look at the bodies. The women had all come out, trying to scrub the streets clean. They had lined up the dead inside, save for Enjolras who they couldn't reach. Aimée knelt and grabbed the long linen that covered the first few people. Grantaire's face stared back, blank and empty. Aimée sighed sadly, remembering his playful smile. Reaching out, she pushed his unruly hair from his face, watching his unfocused eyes stare vacantly ahead. His skin was cold on her fingertips and she shuddered. She felt as her numbness started to melt away.

Her hand shook as she removed the second sheet. More men…more boys. Some staring like Grantaire had, others looking as if they were sleeping, save for the stains of their blood that had blossomed from their wounds. Éponine was among them, her eyes closed and she looked peaceful. Aimée cupped her cheek and said a blessing as she moved on to the third, and final, linen. Closing her eyes and exhaling, Aimée drew it away.

She stood up and stumbled backwards, hunched over and clutching her hand to her mouth, stifling a pained scream. There, nestled between two full grown men, was little Gavroche.

* * *

Javert felt as if he was suffocating. The collar of his military jacket dug into his neck, cutting of his air, and the afternoon reeked of death. Beads of sweat trickled their way down his skin, but he ignored them. The women in the street did not look up at him when he passed by, instead they kept their heads down, intent on their scrubbing. The bodies of his men were sprawled out in the square, their uniforms soaking as they lay in puddles. Javert's downturned eyes stared disbelievingly at the destruction that had come from this short uprising, a battle that hadn't even lived to see the light of the morning.

He heard a scream, a muffled wail, come from the café. He felt nothing as he approached. The first thing he saw was the bodies of the young men, lined shoulder to shoulder on the dusty wood of the ruined ABC Café. He recognized some of the faces from his short time in the barricade, and others he did not know. Jean Valjean was not among them...

_So he has escaped once again, _Javert thought, scanning over the line again. At the end, he froze when he saw her.

Aimée was kneeling on the floor, cradling a boy in her lap, the same boy that had called out Javert's disguise in front of the revolutionaries. Javert couldn't move past the doorway as he saw her, her angelic face contorted by pain and grief. She looked like a child herself, wailing and sobbing, clutching onto the boy as if her own life depended on it. Javert spotted the glint of the sapphire at her finger. He actually felt as if a hand reached inside his chest and grabbed his heart in a painful vice grip.

Javert froze as he felt so much love and anger.

Aimée looked up and spotted him. The two stared at each other for a long while, no sound between them except for Aimée's hiccupping sobs. She smoothed the boy's hair and sniffed, trying to regain her composure some. Gently, she laid him back down and stood, wiping her eyes and trying to meet Javert's own gaze. She couldn't.

"I'm…I'm sorry, Javert."

"Sorry?"

Aimée sniffed and cast her eyes upwards, towards the heavens. She begged for God to provide her with the words she needed. "I never told you the truth."

"The truth."

"Before you arrived, before I knew you were here, I was a smuggler. I helped get weapons into the city. I wasn't supporting their cause, I was just in it for the money. I see now that I was greedy and fool-"

"Look out there," Javert replied, his voice neither raised nor harsh, yet it was as hard as marble. "Look at my men. Killed by the weapons you supplied."

Aimée bit her lip. "I know."

"When were you planning on telling me? Were you even going to tell me?" Javert asked.

"Yes…I was…eventually."

Javert scoffed and Aimée felt another wave of tears threaten her. "Javert, I swear…I was just trying to make money. The second I found you again, I stopped."

"You gave them weapons."

"I know…."

Javert didn't know what to think. He found himself very overwhelmed, his breath hitching in his lungs. The threshold felt as if it was shrinking around him, almost pressing against his shoulders, so he stepped all the way inside, looking at the child instead of Aimée.

"He's the one that told the others who I was," Javert said quietly, noticing that he wasn't speaking to Aimée, or anyone in particular. "Bold little pup."

"His name was Gavroche," Aimée whispered. "I helped take care of him…."

The quietness of her voice made Javert turn his gaze back on her. Her arms were wrapped around herself and he watched as a shudder shook through her body. Stepping closer, Javert bit the inside of his lip. He was not blind to the pain that swam through her eyes, the fear and the desperation. Part of him wanted desperately to forgive her…take her confession and just throw it in the river, disregard it and pretend that nothing was wrong. But the other, harsher side of him grew cold, distant. How could she have absorbed herself in this? For two years he had hunted smugglers and she had hidden behind the Parisian walls like a quiet little mouse, bringing in the guns that killed his men.

But his own men had killed a child, a bold, loudmouthed little boy that only pretended to be a man for a few precious moments.

Javert wanted to do something for him. Looking down, he saw the heavy iron of his medal shining in the early morning rays that had strayed into the café. It had been given to him when he had stumbled his way back into the _Palais¸ _bleeding and exhausted. Hoight had pinned it on his jacket once the Inspector had a chance to change and clean himself up.

Reaching up and undoing the pin, Javert realized that he didn't deserve it. He had been discovered by a child, a smart, bright little child that had an entire life stretched ahead of him. The boy had thrown it away with a loyalty beyond his years. It felt heavy in Javert's hand when he stepped over and knelt next to the boy. Aimée was quiet as she watched him.

He laid the medal on the boy's chest and pressed his hand over it, bowing his head and muttering a small prayer for the child's soul.

"He looked like I would've pictured Pascal," he heard behind him. Javert's eyes snapped open and he continued to kneel, not being able to face the woman behind him. His jaw set. Glowering, he turned and stood to his full height, his back still to Aimée. He tried to ignore her words, because if he took time to listen to them he would see Aimée dressed in her mourning black, standing over the two graves back in Toulon.

"For two years I hunted smugglers," Javert said, looking along the line of bodies. He turned, looking at Aimée in a way that she didn't like. It wasn't distaste, but it wasn't forgiveness. "For two years, I tried to keep weapons out of Paris. Patrolled the streets for days, slept in a saddle, went without meals to keep this city safe, keep the people inside the walls safe. And here, after all that time, it was you. Bringing rifles to these boys, giving them ways to kill while I fought to keep war out of the city."

His words punched her with a ferocity that made her hunch forward. They were so painful because they screamed the truth, wailed the reality that Aimée had tried so hard to ignore or forget about. Once Éponine had died, the guilt had set in, running like ice through her veins. She had thought about what part she had played in this war, but Javert had driven the nail home. There was a long moment of silence. Aimée tried to face him. She held up her hands, palms up as she begged, her eyes shining with emotional toil.

"So…what now, Javert? Are you going to leave me because I made mistakes? Gérard ruined my life when he took me away…I grew cold, distant," she sniffed, begging with him. "And now look at this, two children I help raise are dead. Gavroche and Éponine."

Her eyes flitted to the young woman towards the beginning of the row. Javert drew himself up and pressed his eyes shut.

"I don't know what to do, _mademoiselle…_" Javert murmured, for a moment letting his

stone crack. He was afraid of what might happen. If he forgave her…she might lie to him again. What else could she have been hiding? Or…if he forgave her they could live happily together, her past merely an obstacle that they climbed together. He was torn in two.

Opening his pale green eyes, Javert watched as the tears started to brim in her ocean. He looked over her hair, the dusty gold tangled behind her head, tied with a ribbon. Her clothes were filthy, streaks of dirt muddying the stains of red. And yet his body still stirred with her beauty. Javert suddenly felt vulnerable. He became aware that he had handed his heart over to her, let Aimée Lamenté become his world, his life. Javert had absorbed himself in a woman that he had known, back in Montreuil. The Aimée that had run a flower shop and kissed him in secret in the back of the stables. The Aimée that had shared bread with him in the night. The Aimée that had fallen asleep in his arms when they sat in the library. This woman, the one that stood in the wake of death, he hardly knew anything about, and in the last nine years he saw that she was scarcely the same woman he had loved before. Javert had convinced himself that he saw a stranger standing in front of him. He grew afraid.

Javert looked around, desperately searching for something he was comfortable with. Everything was different to him. The air reeked with death and he felt the heart in his chest start to hammer against his ribs.

"…Javert?"

He shook his head, backing towards the door.

"Javert…please….Don't go, Mattieu," Aimée pleaded, "Look at me. Please. I'm sorry…forgive me. I did everything to save you."

She went after him the moment he turned away. Her fist closed around the thick fabric of his jacket and Aimée tried to turn him, tried to make him face her. She clenched her jaw when she felt him stiffen uncomfortably at her touch. His eyes remained away from her.

"Javert…don't. What can I say, what can I _do_ to make you stay, to make you understand? I'm _not _going to lose you again…."

With the slightest pull of his arm, Javert slipped free from her grip.

"I need to think," was all he said as he walked away, his shoes splashing in the red puddles that littered the cobblestones.

Aimée's feet were frozen to the spot. Her heart had dropped and she hated herself. Javert had walked away from her, without looking her in the eye. Her anxiety began to grow…where was he going? Would he come back? Looking over her shoulder, she saw the bodies of her friends lined up, united in death. Aimée went inside and stood back over them. The bitter realization that she didn't belong here settled over her, making her feel like an unwelcome ghost. These weren't her comrades, she had treated them like business. Aimée hadn't fought with them, hadn't laughed with them, and hadn't died with them. Disgust filled her when she thought about her long dead father, of Gérard Lamenté. For years, the woman had tried to convince herself that she was nothing like him. Yet, as she looked at the satchel of money that sat on the floor, she realized she had strayed too close to him. She had allowed her judgment to be clouded by the enticement of business.

Looking up, Aimée glanced out over the street, Javert was now gone, swallowed up by the city. Aimée realized then too that she didn't belong out there either. She had broken the law, smuggled weapons, fraternized with revolutionaries. Standing in the middle of the threshold, Aimée tore herself into pieces, alone, save for the maids scrubbing in the streets, their heads bowed towards each other as they whispered about the battle that had raged just outside their windows. None of the other women looked at her, even noticed she was there. The three people Aimée actually had in her life were gone, two were claimed by death and the other she had betrayed, maybe even broken.

Walking to the bag that sat on the floor, Aimée felt a bitter taste bloom in her mouth. Her money was hidden away underneath the leather flap. Her original plan was to find Javert and, picturing it like some foolish child, they would run away together. She realized now that the money she had was dirty, gained by enticing the young revolutionaries with weapons they did not need. Without her, there may not have even been a war. Éponine, Gavroche…maybe they would still have been alive if she had just sat quietly in her flower shop, arranging tulips or roses.

Aimée started to convince herself that the look of shock and disgust that Javert had in his eyes when he looked at her was deserved. He was a man of the law, dedicated his life to order and justice and she spat on it, chose to live like a criminal just for greed, the avarice that enticed her with a little extra cash. She felt weak. She couldn't even protect the people she loved from harm.

The thing that gave her strength was Javert, the love he had shared with her and the sapphire that clung to her finger. She lifted her hand to her face and gazed into the dark blue stone. Inside she saw Toulon, saw the way Javert had first looked at her the day she had thrust flowers in his face. She saw her mother, clouded by time, but still beautiful. She saw her baby brother Pascal, bundled and smiling like a baby should. She saw her father, a different man changed by her mother's love. In the ring, Aimée Lamenté saw the happiness in her life. Saw the mercy she craved. .

And she decided she needed to fight for it. Aimée was going to find Javert and fight tooth and nail for his forgiveness, forgiveness to wipe the crushing guilt away.

The maid looked startled when Aimée dropped the satchel in front of her. The other women looked up, wiping their foreheads and the water a cloudy-red as it sopped in their buckets.

"Take this. For all of your losses," Aimée said, walking away before the maid had time to open the flap. She heard surprised cries at her back as she made her way past the bodies and death and disappeared into Paris's winding center.

* * *

Javert was passing a sewer when he heard a loud grunt coming from beyond the wrought iron grate, followed by muffled words. The Inspector neared the grate and leaned toward it, the rank smell of the Parisian underground reeking from the tunnel. There, the mutterings again, he was sure of it. Javert couldn't understand what was exactly being said, but it sounded like frustrated whispers. A man of memory, Javert quickly recognized the voice.

_Valjean._

Why was he in the sewers?

He looked farther up the street, knowing that about a half a mile down the sewers opened up to an open channel that led to the river. A reeking, stinking place, but no doubt Valjean's only exit. Javert stood and watched the grate, wondering what he would do. The sting of Aimée was still fresh and he needed something to strengthen him. The thought of Valjean releasing him made him feel helpless, weak, as if the convict had a power over the Inspector's life. He hated it, hated the emotions that swirled in his head. The thought of being in this man's debt, the man he had hunted, the man that had slipped from his grasp more than once, angered Javert. He fed off of it, strengthened his walls and reminded himself that the law was his life. Convicts threatened it.

Stepping away from the grate, Javert walked towards the opening of the sewers. He knew that he would reach his destination before Valjean, who was no doubt wading through muck and waste for some unknown reason. Was it a desperate way of escape? Valjean was more desperate than Javert had previously thought. As he walked, he felt the heaviness of a pistol tucked into his waistband and he found a sort of comfort in it, something that did its job, something that didn't surprise him with lies or mercy.

The heels of his boots tapped wetly on the damp stones. He was frowning and the streets were empty, people shut up in their homes even as evening started to fall and the revolution staled behind the day. The sun weakened, the late afternoon giving way to dusk and the temperature start to drop with the cool of night just a whisper at the back of Javert's neck.

When Javert reached the opening of the channel, he held a hand up to his nose to try and block out the stench. His eyes watered as he stood at the top of the filthy stairs that led down to the sludge. There he would wait, as patient as a statue.

Time passed in silence, the only noise was Javert's muffled breathing as he tried his best to cover his nose. A fleeting memory of lilac and vanilla filled him and he shook his head free of it, casting it out as if it were undesirable. Javert tried his best not to think about the young woman he had left behind in the café…left to grieve her lost revolutionaries. He doubted she would grieve the men, the young soldiers he had lost.

Nearly an hour had passed and Javert's legs began to ache from standing, but he ignored the discomfort. The light was weak with dusk and Javert could barely see a slight ripple that snaked its way through the sludged water from the opening of the sewer. Letting his hand away from his face, Javert stepped down a few stairs and watched the opening intently. He heard grunt and soon he saw the shadow of a man collapse out of the tunnel, another man slung limply over his shoulder. They were filthy, caked in waste and scum. Still, through the filth, Javert recognized Valjean.

Grunting, Valjean hefted the man on his shoulder and did his best to wade to the foot of the stairs. Javert cleared his throat and the convict's head snapped up to face him, his eyes white against the muck on his face. Javert felt the smooth handle of the pistol in his hand and his fingertip lightly hovered over the trigger.

Neither spoke. Clenching his jaw, Jean Valjean stepped up the first stair.

"I must save this man, Javert," was the first thing out his mouth. Javert glanced at the form slung over Valjean's shoulder. He saw that he was younger, no doubt a rebel from the café. "I dragged him through that to save him, to escape and get him to safety," Valjean said, tossing his head towards the mouth of the sewer. "If you want to shoot me for that, then go ahead. Just keep in mind you will be killing two people."

Javert blinked and he became aware that his hand was shaking slightly on the pistol.

"Show me mercy now, Javert." Valjean started to climb, his eyes boring into Javert's.

He felt frozen, shocked like an animal in the face of death. Javert had planned to arrest him after all this time, finally lock Valjean back behind bars where he belonged. But…he couldn't bring himself to do it, couldn't even bring himself to speak. The law fought with his humanity. Valjean was a criminal that had escaped the law for nearly twenty years.

So why did Javert stand aside when Valjean passed by him in the stairwell, climbing his way to the road and to permanent freedom?

Javert stared at the pistol in his hand, now lowered in defeat once Valjean passed by him without so much as a word. He felt the stars watching him, blinking as they saw his conflicted weakness. He bowed his head, clenching his eyes shut as he tried to steady the world that lurched underneath his feet. In the course of a day, Javert's life had completely shattered. The happiness he had thought he found with Aimée was thrown away, shattered by the secret life she had lived. And now, standing above the filthy sewers of Paris, his once harsh convictions of justice were violated. Clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth began to ache, Javert brought his hand up to his face, hiding away from the overwhelming stench of the gutters and the suffocation of his life.

Feeling a burning sensation in his hand, Javert looked down at the pistol in his hand, scarred by the fires from his past. Disgusted with himself, he felt it slip from his fingers and tumble downwards, disappearing into the sludge below. With a feeling of floating, Javert turned and climbed the stairs back into the street.

Valjean was nowhere to be found.

Javert wandered. He felt as if he was watching himself move through Paris. The man's face was drawn, haggard as he wallowed in his own despair. Aimée filled his head, crushed him under the weight of seeing her mourn over revolutionaries.

"_Don't go, Mathieu. I did everything to save you…"_

Her words burned him, seared their way into his head.  
Looking around, Javert found himself in the center of the bridge that arched over the Seine, the waters churning below. Javert gazed at the looming form of the _Palais de Justice_ and it gazed back at him. He had invested so much of his life to the building and the cruel, uncaring men like Chief Justice Legrande inside. He looked at the stone beneath his feet and realized he was alone…very alone. Aimée was not there by him. His soldiers were not there. Hoight, his partner…not there. The law was not there for him, neither was the love that he thought he had. Javert felt truly alone.

The wide railing of the bridge stretched out in front of him.

Javert stepped forward and pressed his palms on the stone, feeling it cool and secure beneath his hands. Looking upwards at the stars that began to shine in the darkening night, he pulled himself upwards. He felt the breeze from the river blow in his face and the water churned below him, drawing him to watch the waters. Javert noticed how near his feet were to the edge.

Before he could stop himself, Javert reached inside his pocket. He handkerchief made tears spring into his eyes. Standing up on the balustrade, Javert ran his fingers over the streaks of kohl and red. For years he had never washed them out, kept them as a memory of the young woman he had met in Toulon. The young woman that had crashed so violently in his life...changed everything he thought he had known about life. A woman who, at the time, was half his age, but wiser than he had ever been.

Now she was a stranger to him.

He thought of Valjean. Javert was in the debt of a convict. He was a man of the law, unforgiving and stern, yet he had shown how truly weak he really was. Valjean was more powerful than Javert could ever hope to be. The criminal had controlled his life, held it in his hand and decided to spare it in the back of the revolutionaries' café.

Wrapping the handkerchief around his hand, he brought it to his face and felt the smoothness of the satin against his temple. His downturned eyes gazed at his feet, mere inches from the edge. The world became nearly unbearable as it pressed around him.

The waters churned below and the stars watched in silence.


	38. Chapter 38

XXXVIII: Solace of Home

Aimée had searched everywhere for him, but without luck. Night had fallen and she was making her way to the _Paliais _now, desperately hoping he had made his way back to the ominous- looking building that towered the riverside. Turning a corner, she found herself standing at the beginning of the long bridge that arched its way across the murky waters.

A silhouette standing on the balustrade shocked her. Her body jolted in panic as she realized it was Javert, his head bowed and his feet dangerously close to the edge. As quickly as she could, she neared him. As she got closer, she slowed, fearing she would surprise him into jumping.

"…Javert?" she murmured, standing a few yards away and watching him intently, trying to hide her own panic and still her own hammering heart. The man didn't move.

"Javert…please come down."

He did not stir, but Aimée noticed the way his chest heaved with a sigh and she saw the flicker of a pale piece of cloth clenched in his fist. Aimée immediately knew that it was the handkerchief. It glimmered the darkness like the sliver of hope she needed. She looked up to his face, turned in profile as he gazed down at the water.

Thinking on her feet, Aimée began to speak, her voice quiet and calm, as nurturing as a woman's voice could be.

"My mother's name was Melanie…" she began, hoping desperately that this wild idea would work. "She had brown hair, freckles…and a gap in her teeth." Aimée noticed as his head barely turned to register her words. Licking her lips nervously, she continued. "She died seventeen years ago in Toulon with my baby brother, Pascal. I had a father, his name was Gérard. He died. I help raised a little girl, her name was Éponine. She was shot. I helped raise a little boy…his name was Gavroche…he was shot too."

Aimée was reminded harshly that her words were true. Her calm began to falter and she

started to choke on tears.

"In Toulon, I used to pick flowers…I tore them from my father's garden. I would try and

sell them in the streets. Most people ignored me, pushed by me or laughed at my dirty dress or my flowers."

Javert closed his eyes and let her words find his ears, taking him back to a place that had changed his life.

"Once, there was a man, a guard from the shipyards. I remember stopping him and holding up my flowers, trying to get him to take one. They were free…."

Aimée sniffed and tried her best to ignore how close Javert's feet were to the edge of the stone railing. Tried to ignore how fast the waters coursed below. "I remember thinking, 'this man looks so serious. Maybe a flower would make him happy,' I just wanted to make someone happy." Aimée had to wipe her eyes. She was amazed she had tears left.

"He took one. And that night, I remember sitting in my windowsill as I looked at the stars and wondered if he was watching them too, this guard who took a flower from me, the only person who had stopped to look at me. Who had stopped my father's hand, protected me even though he had never met me in his life. I knew that this guard was kind."

Javert turned away from her. He let her words fill him. He was torn apart, ragged, thinking there was nothing left but the river that swirled below his feet.  
"One night, my father hit me, so I ran out to sit by the fountain with some bread. That guard found me there, told me I shouldn't be outside…" she took a moment to find her voice after a crack, "…told me it was dangerous. It surprised me back then to have someone care about what I did. The guard brought me home."

She paused and the night swirled around them. The stars twinkled anxiously and Aimée had no idea if her words were helping the situation or not. She didn't even know if he could hear what she was saying. Her anxiety grew, but she managed to hide it as she spoke again.

"We grew to be friends over time, me and this guard. I remember, the mayor used to throw parties. I went to one and found him there. I remember actually thinking that he looked handsome, drawn up in his uniform, his posture perfect. I was drawn to his eyes, pale-green and bright, he always looked as if he was thinking about something and at times my greatest wish was to know what was going on in his head."

Aimée began to drift away from their spot on the bridge, losing herself to her own memory. She sat on the cobblestones, her back against the balustrade behind her. She reached back and pulled her hair free from the ribbon, hating the way it was pulling at her scalp. Javert continued to stand above her, a few yards away still, a safe distance.

"When I was around him, I felt happy," amazingly, in the wake of panic, war, and the threat of suicide, Aimée gave a small chuckle as she relived her memories. "I remember asking if he danced…he said he wasn't one much for dancing. I guess I was a little disappointed…to dance with that handsome guard wouldn't have been that terrible of a thing."

She didn't see that Javert turned to look down at her, his face the face of stone as he listened to her words.

"He rescued me, this man did. He found me in the mayor's gardens after I was attacked. He told me he carried me all the way back and kept me safe. No one had ever done that for me before, protected me. When my mother died…" she sniffed, "When my mother died, he came to me in the graveyard. I hugged him, I remember being so embarrassed that I'd done that, but he told me not to worry."

Javert bowed his head, reliving the memories with her.

"We were separated for a time, me and my guard," Aimée closed her eyes. "But in Montreuil, we found each other again, just by fate. I realized that I'd loved him, this strong, handsome man that was as harsh as the law he protected, but kind and gentle around me. The first time I kissed him, we were sitting in my library. I was so nervous I was shaking. It was a little kiss, I pulled away immediately, I remember being afraid that I'd done something wrong."

Javert cautiously turned when he heard her quiet chuckle. He studied her face, tear tracks snaking down her cheeks, yet her mouth was in a rueful smile. Glancing back at the river, he hung his head. The Aimée of his past filled the air around him and he began to feel overwhelmed again. However, he couldn't deny the warmth that filled him when he heard her chuckle, the warmth that began to fight with his own inner convictions.

Aimée continued in the darkness. "But then he kissed me back, and I remember being so happy. The happiest I've ever been or ever imagined I could be."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Their eyes met and Javert felt her eyes search his soul, see what a weak man he was. Aimée saw the man she had hurt, the man who she had betrayed. The tiny smile that had quirked her lip was gone.

"I was taken away from him," Aimée said, her voice stronger now that Javert would look at her. "Taken from the man I loved by my father. I had no idea where I was and I looked for him, but my father had hidden me far away. I found Éponine, just a little girl, and I was made to take care of her. The family I was forced to live with, the Thénardiers, were cruel to me. I needed money. I needed to get away from them."

Aimée was about to confess the story that Javert had not wanted to hear.

"I started a flower shop. But I was hardly making any money. I would go to bed hungry some nights. Little Éponine was starving in the streets, the Thénardiers had forced her to become a pickpocket. _Monsieur _Thénardier called on me one night, told me that I needed to help him with a kind of delivery. If I didn't, he threatened to ruin my shop. I was made to pick up an order of gunpowder and bullets. In order to save my shop, I did as he said."

Her words were true. "When I was done, I received more money that I had ever held before. Thénardier let me keep a percentage of it. After that…I got involved with the business of it. I was drawn to the money, drawn to the comfort and full belly it provided. I grew harsh, a woman of the streets. I kept the flower shop open to use as a cover, as an alibi."

Javert showed no emotion as she finished her story. They were quiet. She wished he would speak to her.

"But then, I found my guard again, but now he was the Chief Inspector of Paris. He found me when I was trying to smuggle rifles. I was so scared. But I was so relieved to find him again, I felt myself change when I looked back on his face, older but even more handsome than what I had remembered. When I was back with him, I remembered who I was, a woman who was kind, caring, loving. I realized that I was not a smuggler, I was not a criminal. I hid the truth from him out of disgust…I hated myself for what I had done."

Aimée felt numb, her panic so overwhelming it sucked all the feeling from her. She couldn't even feel the solidness from the railings pillars press against her spine.

"He proposed to me, gave me this ring," Aimée whispered, looking down at the ring that hugged her finger, "I loved him so much. That night we shared a bed, and I had never remembered knowing such love or kindness. I had never been that happy. My life felt complete, my life felt right. He sucked away all the wrongdoings that I had done."

Aimée looked back up at him and he saw the shining of tears. "Now, this man is all I have. Everyone I had ever loved is now dead, except for him. He is the only thing I have to live for. I want to fight for him, keep him safe, and continue to love him," she murmured, "Please, Javert. Don't leave me now. Don't make me live with another death. Don't leave me alone here in this world."

Her words died away to a whisper he had barely heard. Javert looked down at her, sitting curled against the balustrade. Javert saw the woman of his past. The one that threw a rock at his carriage when he had tried to leave without telling her, the woman that held his hand as they gazed at fireworks. The woman that had sat at the courthouse stairs, waiting for him to return to her. The river crashed below him, drawing him back to the situation at hand. Javert closed his eyes. Javert remembered throwing her letters into the fire, remembered hearing her screams through the parchment.

Could he really bring himself to do that to her? Could he bring himself to leave her one last time?

"Aimée…" his voice was a ragged whisper of despair.

"I love you, Mattieu Javert…don't leave me here."

Javert found himself turning to face the street, his back to the river. Her words filled him, swept him away somewhere that wasn't Paris. Her words brought him to Montreuil, to the stable that smelled of hay and horses. Her words pressed his back against the softness of her bed and he felt her weight over him, straddling him as he felt her hot kisses down his neck. Aimée stood and moved in front of him, gazing up at his face in the darkness as the stars twinkled overhead. She did not speak, but Javert found himself reaching out and placing his hand on her golden hair, which glowed in the moonlight. He ran his fingers through it, pulling when he found a snag and thinking that it felt like spun silk against his skin.

Realizing he had no more strength left, Javert collapsed forward, slipping from the balustrade and encircling Aimée in his arms. Struck by the surprise of his weight against her, she tumbled to the ground, kneeling with Javert as he clung to her, his face buried in her hair. His back shook with a wracking sob and Aimée tightened her arms around him in response, relief flooding her and lifting the dead weight from her shoulders. She heard Javert's muffled cries and felt her own tears slip gently from her lids.

Javert shook like a leaf, clutching Aimée to him with pure desperation and need. His knees were damp on the cobblestones, but he didn't care, all he cared about was the woman he held in his arms, the warmth and stability she gave him as he wept and shook.

"Shhh…" she murmured, reaching up and trailing her fingers along the back of his neck. She sniffed, forcing herself to be strong for him. "I'm here, Javert. I love you. I won't leave you. I'm here…."

After a few moments Javert's wracking sobs died away. Aimée pulled back and pressed her hands to his face, feeling the stubble wet with his tears. She gave him a watery smile and traced his brows, the lines in his face, his lips. Pulling him towards her, she pressed a long kiss to his forehead. Javert's shaking ended with a long sigh as he allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he relished her caresses.

"A-Aimée…I-"

"Shhh…no, we won't ever have to speak of this again, alright?" Aimée murmured, looking Javert straight in his pale green eyes.

Swallowing back his tears, Javert nodded and leaned forward, nestling his face in the warm softness of Aimée's neck.

"I've always loved you, Javert. Ever since that day I shoved those flowers in your face," she hummed, kneading his shoulders with strong fingers and trying to relieve the tension he felt. "And my love is as real as the day itself."

The two sat like that, collapsed into each other's arms, for nearly an hour. Javert, finally having composed himself, pulled away from Aimée and stood. Aimée watched him as he looked over his shoulder to the river down below. His jaw setting, he turned back to her and offered her his hand. Taking it and feeling the warm roughness of his skin, Aimée was helped up. If Javert was unnerved by his moment of crushing weakness, he did not show it now. He was back to his old self, strong, reserved, and perfect.

Aimée's spine tingled when she felt his hands spread over her waist, pulling her to him. He didn't speak, but his hands traveled upwards, one spreading out along her back and the other resting gently at the base of her neck. Javert's eyes met with hers and he pulled her gently against his chest, rocking with just the gentlest of motions. Aimée's eyes closed and she buried her face into his chest, inhaling the strong smell of him and feeling herself melt. It was his turn to kiss the top of his head. She felt the slight nudging of his chin as he rested it on the top of her hair. Javert sighed heavily through his nose and felt the panic and fear melt away from him. He didn't want to think of the railing that sat behind him, didn't want to think of the river churning below. Javert didn't want to think about how close he had come to ending it all, ending this, this _bliss._

The night grew quiet and Aimée could hear the even thumping of his heart.

"Javert?" she ventured, her voice a whisper.

"Mmmm?" he murmured.

"Will you kiss me?"

She felt his chin lift from her head and his hand snaked its way to tilt her chin upwards. Aimée felt the soft warmth of his thumb tracing along the underside of her jaw. She bit her lip, looking into his eyes, downturned so they looked like he was perpetually in thought. Aimée couldn't help the little smile that quirked her lips in anticipation.

Her heart began to soar when she noticed the corners of Javert's own mouth flicker upwards and he closed the distance between them. Aimée's knees went week when she felt his mouth claim hers and his arms wrap around her. Wrapping her own arms around his neck, she pressed herself close to him, feeling the strength of his chest against her own. Gentle at first, the two lovers grew more desperate for each other in the heat of their kiss and deepened it. Relief overwhelmed them and Aimée's heart thundered against Javert's in the night. She tasted like bright hope and he tasted like unyielding safety.

Javert felt all of his struggles lift free from his tired body. His life, which had taken a drastic, chaotic turn in just a few days, began to feel right with this woman in his arms. He was enveloped in her, every trailing touch of her fingers, every beat of her heart, every puff of breath against his skin. She, nearly twenty years his junior, gave Javert a reason to live, a reason to forgive and show mercy.

When they finally broke away, both were panting for breath. Aimée glowed in the night and Javert couldn't restrain himself from cupping one of her cheeks with his large palm. Their foreheads pressed against each and both found themselves smiling gently.

"Javert?"

"Yes, Aimée?"

"Can we go home?"

Javert gave a small chuckle and kissed her forehead then her nose, and ended with a peck on her lips.

"You've found me again, _Mademoiselle…_ I already am home."

* * *

_**Hey guys...bittersweet chapter for me.**_

_**This is it, i'll write an epilogue, of course, but for now, here we are, the end of the road. I want to thank all of my readers and reviewers from the bottom of my heart, this story was never going to be this big, this fantastic. It was going to be just a simple fic, maybe ten chapters at most, but the support from everyone pushed me to keep writing, and i thank you all for that. You all have helped make this happen, so feel proud! I hope you liked it, hope you enjoyed reading my words as much as i enjoyed reading your comments. **_

_**Thank you all again, you all are awesome and lots of love!**_

_**BluesGirl**_


	39. Chapter 39

Epilogue

The pastures were green in the late summer, shimmering in a fresh vibrancy beneath the cerulean sky. The grass was long, almost knee height and it swayed together like a sweeping ocean in the slight breeze that cooled the radiating sunshine into comfortable warmth. A large hornbeam maple tree sat atop a gentle hill that rose through the pasture, its green leaves ballooning above its trunk and branches. Two black horses stood nearby, their muzzles lowered to the fresh enticing grass.

Underneath the shadowy canopy of the maple sat a couple. A man and a woman. Both were laying on their back, the man's arm propped up underneath his head and his other slung across the woman's waist as she used his stomach as a pillow and lounged perpendicular from him. Any outsider could see that there was an age difference between the two, but most forgot about it once they witnessed how they looked at each other. The man's eyes would crinkle with sparkling happiness and the woman's smile was absolutely angelic.

The breeze whispered through the leaves of the maple and Aimée cracked her eyes open. She had dozed off. She stirred against and she felt the soft caress of Javert's thumb stroking along her stomach. Aimée turned on her side and looked up at Javert, reaching over and running her fingers over the stubble of his beard. Javert loosened his arm around her without opening his eyes and smiled as he felt the weight of her shift as she lounged further on his chest. She fiddled with the ties from his light cotton shirt.

"Wake up, sleepy head," she teased, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his chin.

Aimée felt the rumble of Javert's groan in his chest.

"But we're so comfortable, _madame," _Javert grumbled playfully as he trapped her in his arms, holding her close.

Aimée smiled and fidgeted until she could reach his lips. She felt his smile against hers and they allowed themselves to be carried away with each other for a few blissful moments.

"Alright…" he finally murmured as she pulled away, "I'm awake."

"Good," she said, giving him a peck before she stood up, the lower leaves of the tree grabbing at her hair.

Javert groaned and did the same, brushing his pant legs free of grass and twigs. "I'm getting too old for that," he grumbled.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way," Aimée quipped, taking hold of his hand and pulling him from beneath the tree. The two squinted from the bright sunlight, but by the time they made it back to their horses, their eyes had adjusted. Aimée, wearing riding trousers and boots, easily pulled herself in the saddle and watched as Javert did the same. The horses snorted, a little disappointed that they had to cut short their grazing.

"Shall we head home?" Aimée suggested

"I can't find anything wrong with that," Javert said, pulling his horse up to hers and leaning over in his saddle to give her a light kiss.

Aimée grinned as he pulled away. "How about a race?"

"What?"

"Ready, go!" she exclaimed, ignoring Javert's questing and spurring her horse forward down the hill in a gallop.

"Why you little-" Javert's exclamation was cut short as he took heel to his own horse with a shout.

Her hair billowed behind her like a golden sheet and Javert couldn't tear his eyes away from it as they rode. She turned to look behind her and Javert watched as her mouth was split in open mouthed laughter. Aimée had learned to ride exceedingly well since he'd taught her several months before. However, after long years of patrolling, Javert could still out do her. In no time, he had pulled up next to her, giving her a competitive grin.

As they pounded their way up a slight rise, Javert pulled ahead and he relished in the look of surprise that swept the woman's face. Below them next to a little stream nestled a two story cottage, white plaster walls with wooden support beams. Ivy clung to one wall and in the back was a little fenced in area where chickens pecked their way around a couple goats. Maple and willows dotted their way around the little house and a large pasture was fenced off for the two black horses. A stable stood in the corner.

As they rode, a big dog loped over to them, his fur shaggy and the color of the winter sky. Aimée gave the animal a whistle and said, "There's a good boy, Lobo."

Javert slowed as he made his way towards the stable and Aimée caught up with him.

"You always beat me," she said, looking stubborn.

"I have no doubt you'll win one of these days," Javert said, dismounting and heading over towards Aimée's horse. Lifting up his arms, he helped Aimée down. Taking a hold of her hand, Javert led his horse to the stable.

When the horses were free of their tack and brushed, they were let out into the pasture to graze and the two made their way inside to the cottage, Lobo following them and sniffing their hands as they walked. The house was a comfortable size, intimate for a couple like Javert and Aimée. Bedrooms, a study, and a small library were upstairs and below sat the kitchen and living room with two fireplaces that kept the entire house comfortable in the winter.

Paris was three days away to the east. After the revolution, Aimée and Javert decided that they couldn't stand to be in the pressing city any longer. The two got married with a quiet ceremony, Javert wearing his dress uniform and Aimée a white lace gown that made her look so beautiful, Javert momentarily forgot how to breathe when he first laid eyes on her. Now a married man, Javert then went to the _Palais de Justice_ to officially retire from Chief Inspector. Officer Hoight was his suggested replacement.

After retirement, Javert took up the money he had saved away and he and Aimée moved to the countryside, buying a small cottage and starting a proficient garden to supply their vegetables and grains. Javert had brought his Friesian with him from Paris and they soon bought another horse once Aimée told him she wanted to learn to ride. Aimée then picked out names for the two animals, both males. She decided to name her own horse Pan, because he was slighter than Javert's and more mischievous. Javert, remembering the animal that had been his companion for so many years, named his own Ombre.

The thought of children had come to them, but Aimée admitted that, after Éponine and little Gavroche, she couldn't bring herself to be a mother. That was a dark time for her and she found herself lying in bed for a long time, not coming down even to eat. Javert stayed by her, held her as she slept, and nursed her back to health with words of love and comfort. After she finally recovered, they realized that they could be happy with just each other and their animals.

On clear nights, Aimée and Javert would walk to the maple tree with Lobo jogging beyond them, sniffing the ground and barking at them to hurry. Once they would make it to the hill, the two would lie on their backs, their hands entwined, and watch the stars. Sometimes, they would talk of the past in Montreuil, or talk about how they met, other nights they sat and loved each other in silence. Lobo would come over and nuzzle between them or try and entice them into playing fetch with a stick. Afterwards, they would make their way back and curl up with each other in the little room before falling asleep.

The two were happier and more in love than they could've ever imagined. The horrors of Paris were now in the past and their future together was bright and full of paradise. The two had each other, and they soon realized that was all they had really needed.

* * *

_**Here we are...**_

_**I love you guys so much and once again, i am so glad you gave me this opportunity to continue this. I've had some of the best reviews and your complements make my heart just soar! All of you are amazing!**_

_**BluesGirl**_


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